


A Soliloquy for Two

by Inferification



Series: The Angel and the Righteous Man [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AI Units, Aliens, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Character, Community: deancasbigbang, DCBB 2014, Dean POV, Dean-Centric, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2014, Emetophobia, Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Depression, Implied/Referenced Human Experimentation, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Nightmares, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Off-screen Minor Character Death, Other tags:, Panic Attacks, References to Mental Health Issues, Scars, Self-Worth Issues, Torture, Wingfic, implied/referenced PTSD, mild reference to suicide, other pairings are hugely minor, space, trigger warnings for:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-04
Updated: 2014-11-04
Packaged: 2018-02-21 07:16:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2459606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inferification/pseuds/Inferification
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the year 2502AD, Dean Winchester escapes the clutches of the medical research company Revelation Industries and its director, Alastair, with an angel calling itself Castiel stuck in his head. As he flees Alastair, he works on a way to get Castiel a body of his own, preferably the one with huge, black wings that he came from, while battling with himself to regain some semblance of normalcy. He recruits Charlie, his long-time friend, and Benny, the customized AI of his spaceship, a Beta-Class 2Y5-IMPALA, to help him on his mission across space.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge.
> 
> My tumblr [deanburger](deanburger.tumblr.com)
> 
> Thanks to my awesome artist [lostwingsintime](lostwingsintime.tumblr.com/). Sadly due to personal reasons, lostwingsintime was forced to drop out days before my posting date (thus the weeks delay). The mods haven't got back to me on this, so I'm posting without art. Hope that isn't a sticking point for anyone.
> 
> Thanks also to Ellie and Artica for the beta, even though you don't belong to the fandom.
> 
> This work is based very loosely on the novel Healer by P F Wilson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terminology:  
> United Allied Planets: UAP

The myth of the Angel and the Righteous Man is one that has survived a millennium of human culture. In an age where superstition, religion and mythology has largely faded, becoming merely part of the large and varied collection of fictional works humanity has amassed, this story of love and devotion is one which has never truly died out. Indeed, there are those who still claim to have met these gods amongst men, these immortal healers who come only to serve: transient beings bound only to each other throughout the centuries. Whether the myth had a basis in fact is unknown, but most professors of folklore and mythology date the first appearance of these men, if they are in fact real, to the dawn of the 26th Century.

-The Angel and the Righteous Man, Origins and History of a Legend  
By Carver Edlund

He’s running. Twisting and turning down dark, rock passages following the directions of a gruff, gravelly voice. It’s come from nowhere and maybe ten years ago Dean wouldn't be following instructions on blind faith. Especially where Alastair was involved. Ten years ago he was still resisting.

_Left. Left. Right. Straight on._

The directions continue, just as Dean continues to follow them, without pause. As of yet, he hasn't come across any of the lab assistants, or even worse the drug development guys themselves. But this is his twenty-seventh escape attempt in four months, so he has a right to be cautious about getting his hopes up this time.

He passes doors and windows as he goes, ducking past them rapidly to avoid drawing the attention of the test-subjects inside. Some of them are here voluntarily, after all. As is he. Technically. There’s a nasty part of his brain that likes to remind him of that after each torture session. He stopped kidding himself long ago that they were anything more than that, or it might have been Alastair initially. The early days are a blur.

On a whim he deviates from the-voice-in-his-head’s simple instructions, even though the disobedience makes his skin crawl with nervousness in anticipation of punishment. It takes him several attempts before he manages to defy them. He takes the right tunnel instead of the left inside the satellite He’s not sure if it's a planet, asteroid, or moon. Not knowing which doesn't taint the freedom he’s gained and he relishes it even as he fears it.

This is when things start to go wrong, of course. Because luck has never been a virtue the Winchesters were granted. He rounds a corner and almost walks straight into Azazel, Head of Research and Development in Alastair's huge drug company. His back is turned, so Dean can easily turn around and come back the way he came, but that would mean following the-voice-in-his-head. Admitting that maybe it’s helping, and that someone actually cares enough about someone like him to aid his escape. His taste of freedom, hard fought and hard won, has backfired horribly (not that he was expecting anything different).

There's no way he can beat him in a fair fight. Months of too-little food, extreme cocktails of drugs that made him ill, and near-constant pain has weakened him. Dean can hardly believe that he’s managed to run this far at all.

He runs up behind the demonic human masquerading as a scientist in a lab-coat and grabs his neck, pulling him back into a choke hold. Azazel swings his elbow backwards, catching Dean in the gut and loosening the grip on his neck. But not enough. Dean has enough leverage to pull Azazel backwards, catching him off-balance and ramming his head into the stone wall.

He loses track of time and is vaguely aware of someone calling his name through the haze as he stares down at his blood-stained hands. Azazel’s body is a mess. Beaten thoroughly, not simply incapacitated to allow Dean to escape. He feels for a pulse with shaking hands. He can’t decide whether he wants the man lying prostrate before him in a puddle of blood to be alive or dead. Murder and violence against other people is almost unheard of throughout the United Allied Planets, although some of the independent, feral planets certainly operate under such horrific conditions.

He isn't certain whether he meant to kill Azazel or not, but it’s taken out of his hands, not to mention a relief, when he finds a faint fluttering pulse at the carotid artery. No matter how brutal the man was, Dean doesn't ever want to sink to that level. To the level of murder. He’s already crossed into violence.

Dean’s white hospital scrubs are stained with blood. Spattered as if he himself is bleeding. Unclean. Unworthy. It only takes one word. Alastair's nasal voice reverberating through his head. (“Unworthy. Unworthy. Unworthy.”)

There’s not just blood staining his scrubs anymore but vomit as he empties is stomach at the side of the tunnel, careful to avoid Azazel’s unconscious form. There’s a ringing in his ears as he tries to catch hold of his increasingly ragged breaths.

Calm down? Easier said than done. He’s got a voice in his head. Delusional. That’s what any psychotherapist would tell him. Right before they fed him a cocktail of drugs to stop it and ship him straight back to Alastair. Delusional had been a term used to describe him by many over the years, even by his own father. Right before the man had walked out on them. At least this time they’d be right.

Thinking about his own delusions has weirdly calmed him. Even though his mind is still doing panicky jumps between now and before (fists hitting skin and breaking bone and pain and fear), his heart-rate has slowed to normal and his hands have stopped shaking so he’s capable of moving again.

_Good. Now follow me._

He can’t find the will to disobey anymore, so simply follows the instructions being telegraphed directly into his skull. He does, however, grab an official-looking silver pendant from Azazel before he takes off. If it’s some kind of access card, then it’s going to be useful. It sits heavy against his chest, a reminder of the pendant Sam once gave him. Dean doesn't bother trying to sneak past the rooms and turn-offs anymore. Someone will find Azazel soon, and his chance of escape, even if he doesn't deserve it, especially after what he's done, will dwindle again.

He had been lucky. An untrained, too-green orderly had delivered him some food, leaving the door unlocked and the protective force-field down as he entered, carrying a tray of rations. The kid had been a little star-struck at ‘meeting’ Dean Winchester. He’d forgotten his hand-held electro-incapacitator and didn’t even have an auto-syringe of sedatives on hand. He also didn't look inside and check that Dean was still chained to the wall before entering. Rookie mistake. Dean didn't get a reputation for escape and resisting experimentation for nothing.

The poor guy was locked away in Dean’s cell before he even had a chance to put down the food, staring as Dean began escape attempt number twenty-seven. He was lucky the cells were sound-proof, and used for only the most non-cooperative and violent of test subjects, who quite frankly didn't give a shit about Dean’s close to bi-weekly break-outs.

He comes to a sudden halt as he passes another window. The ground had been sloping steadily upwards, but it’s still a surprise when the glass panes to the left become actual windows, to an outside world beyond the testing facility that Dean has lived in for longer than he has any other place, besides the IMPALA. The ground outside is rocky and bare. There appears to be no external light-source apart from the sealed electrical lamps from inside the facility. Not even stars, which worries Dean until he catches sight of the door, and the thought takes a back seat to studying it. It’s not pressure-sealed, nor is it air-tight; Dean’s worked on more than enough spaceships and orbit-platforms for him to recognize that. It’s safe outside. A way out.

He walks slowly towards the door at end of the rock-hewn tunnel, his bare feet making no sound as he moves. The-voice-in-his-head has gone silent and Dean can’t work out if he’s grateful, or if he misses the company.

_You seem to be taking this very well._

Dean started, nearly tripping over his own feet as the voice made a reappearance.

“Not like I have a lot of choice.” He says, his voice cracking from disuse, if you didn't count the screaming and begging as use. He’s talking to himself. He’s finally cracked. One of Alastair's so-called experiments has finally driven him insane. He knows he’s broken and tainted in ways that he’ll never recover from, but he wanted just one thing to himself that Alastair couldn't corrupt. And he can’t have that. Alastair is in his head in all the ways he shouldn't be. And it’s all due to his brain. Because of it, in fact. His curse to bear since the aptitude tests at age ten. They drew all the wrong kinds of attention to the name Dean Winchester. Including Alastair’s corporation. He’s the prize specimen. The ultimate lab-rat. After so many years of resistance: running at first, then trading himself in for college tuition, giving in piece-by-piece in the months he’s been trapped here until there was almost nothing left, Alastair has finally taken what he always wanted; Dean’s mind.

There’s a weird noise. Something in-between a hysterical giggle and a dry-sob. It takes a moment for Dean to notice that it’s coming from him.

_Are you going to open the door?_

He’s gotten stuck in his own head again. It’s been happening with more and more frequency as he nears something like the four month mark of his imprisonment. It had started as an escape, a way to make the situation easier to live with, but had quickly turned into something more detrimental to his health.

Dean turns his attention to the outer door. It leads directly to the space-docks of whatever rock Alastair hid his laboratories-come-torture-chambers under. There are a number of spacecraft out there. He recognizes them all. There's a wrenching sensation in his chest as he thinks of the IMPALA, left to collect dust with Sam. 

_There’s time for this later. Might I turn your attention to actually opening this door?_

Dean shakes himself slightly. The-voice-in-his-head has a point. As soon as his escape is noticed, someone will sound the alarm and every exit will be swamped with security. He tries to reach out for the door, but something vile and putrid has slithered into his head, filling his mind with doubts. Would it really be worth it? After all, what can he do? He has no marketable skills. No education beyond his own self-taught learning, staying up late at night reading engineering text-books, medical, history, works of fiction. Anything he could get at. He’s damaged, broken and worse than useless. The idea of freedom is simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying.

He reaches for the handle anyway. One last fuck-you to Alastair.

The night air brushes against his skin. It’s a gentle caress, the softest touch he’s had since he came here. It’s a sensation he wants to drown himself in, soak it up and use it as a shield from his memories. And now he’s waxing poetic about air: nitrogen, oxygen and a couple of other molecules thrown into the mix. It’s not that fantastic, apart from it is. This air hasn't been filtered and cleansed and heated to precisely 20.52°C.

_There appears to be some kind of alarm going off Dean, now might be the time to get in one of those machines and ride off into the sunset._

The-voice-in-his-head is a snarky bastard. On second thoughts, it’s him so it should be. And it has a point. He should be making his epic escape before the guards find him.

He runs towards the nearest ship with the greatest speed and maneuverability at a low crouch. For stealth he tells himself, not because his stomach is clenching painfully. The loading ramp is down as per UAP regulations, so it’s easy to get himself on-board.

The ship itself is a standard Delta Class-MX52: suitable for three passengers, atmospheric conditions, and self-sufficient for up to six months. He’s flown plenty in simulators before. The one problem he’s got is that all surface-to-space enabled ships are required, by law, to have a biometric ignition switch. It’s to prevent people like him from doing what he’s trying to do right now.

Why the doors inside the research facility don’t have biometric recognition software is beyond Dean at the moment, but he’s glad he didn't have to hack his way out of the building and into the spaceship.

_I believe it’s because they’d have to have their test-subjects’ DNA on file. As genetic experimentation is mostly illegal, I’m sure it’s to hide what they’re doing here._

It makes sense. Genetic experimentation, aside from the purposes of correcting embryonic abnormalities, has been banned since the horrors of 2455AD. Gamma Enterprises had been growing genetically altered human bodies with the intent to transfer the consciousness of their clients into them in order to prolong life. The bodies were completely brain-dead, apart from the automatic systems that kept the body alive. The client could design their new body down to hair color and weight. In theory, the transfer from one body to another would have been seamless, but the new brain didn't have the same neural pathways as the old one. This lead to partial transfer, with memories and personalities ripped apart as the new brain went into neural overload. Those who survived became known as the Soulless. All of them were humanely euthanized. Gamma Enterprises fell into disrepute, the ’56 Genetics Convention was installed, and Alastair's corporation, Revelation Industries, became the major manufacturer of medicinal supplies.

Dean focuses on the cockpit. He locates the tool kit and extracts the scanner, a screwdriver and electrically insulated tweezers. It’s too easy to find the access port to the control panel and even easier to get inside. He uses the tweezers and the tips of his fingers to carefully separate the wires and reaches forward until he can touch the ignition switch wire.

_This cannot be safe._

“No, it’s not. If I get one thing wrong, I could cause a biological evacuation of the ship,” he huffs.

_Meaning our incineration._

“Well if you want to get technical about it.” It’s easier to talk to the voice than not. It staves off his impending panic and the weight of his memories.

_Yes. I believe that having a comprehensive knowledge of this technology is required for your success._

Dean opens his mouth to reply, and promptly closes it when he realizes he’s been talking to himself.

He, instead, focuses on the task in front of him. He reaches for the toolbox with his free hand, grabbing extra wire. Dean carefully cuts away a small section of the protective seal on the ignition switch wire that’s directly linked to the biometric recognition hardware. He attaches the extra wire to the gap, the bio-insulation forming a new seal automatically, and spools it out until it can reach the other side of the hardware.

It’s easy after that to clip the wire in place and cut all links to the hardware. He’s essentially managed to reroute the switch so it bypasses the biometric recognition part of the ignition.

“Yahtzee,” He comments as the new wire takes, integrating seamlessly with the wire that was there before. “I’d sack who ever designed the MX52s, they should have integrated the biometric recognition hardware into the switch itself.”

He hits the switch immediately, allowing himself to hear the warning sirens and acknowledge the flashing lights from the once-quiet facility. A few security members are congregating around the ship, but even they know that Dean’s untouchable. Has been from the moment he hit the ignition switch. He can’t think about the fact that he’s free yet, however. Alastair can easily send drones and ships after him, though they’re unlikely to catch him. He’s spent his entire life growing up on a spaceship, changing planets as one might change clothes. He’s had to learn to adapt and fit in to whatever society they found themselves in: Alastair might be able to chase him, but he won’t find him easily.

He completes the last few safety-checks, his father’s voice sounding in his head. (“Never skip out on the final steps, Dean, it can be the difference between a safe mission and you getting your brother killed.”) Eight-year-old Dean had nodded gravely, receiving a gentle ruffle of his hair as praise. This Dean follows the check-list in his head automatically and efficiently, settling back into his chair for lift-off.

He feels the vague tug of worry in his gut, the reminder that he’s flying, something he’s never gotten used to. Space is a different matter, but lift-off and touch-down always has him tense and nervous. As the ship rises, Dean begins to take in the sky, aiming to determine some vague coordinates. To his horror, the sky is completely black. There’s still no tell-tale trace of stars that he can use to pin-point his location, no moons. His hands begin to shake as they grip the controls, fear of being dragged back, of failing at the final hurdle after he’s got so far is seeping into his skull. He can’t. He’d rather die. Maybe he can crash the ship somewhere, kill himself in the process, but he needs a greater velocity for that. Alastair will have him again.

He’s so caught up in his panic that he doesn't notice Azazel’s pendant growing warm against his chest. The planet below has grown small as the ship’s engine manipulates its gravity field. As it reaches a warm enough temperature to start burning through his scrubs, a sudden white portal opens in front of the ship and sucks them in.

There are stars.

He’s surrounded. The void, the blackness of space, is punctuated by steadily shining pinpricks of light. His hands are still trembling, but this is the most relief he’s felt in so long that it doesn't matter anymore. He feels a few tears slip from his eyes as the ship’s computer abruptly boots up, positioning software popping up onto the display in front of him. He automatically plots a course to Zarus, the established planet where Sam is at college, before allowing himself to curl up in the pilot’s seat, adrenaline and suppressed emotions overtaking him as he shakes from the force of his relieved sobs.

He’s made it. Escaped from the hell that’s been his life for the past months. It’s almost too good to believe, but he can’t help but hope.

He’s out of it. Exhausted enough that he barely reacts to the warm feelings of companionship and safety surrounding him that do not feel like his own. He can feel himself beginning to drift, losing contact with the world around him and he gives in, welcoming the darkness.

_It’s okay, Dean. You’re safe now. You’re saved._


	2. Chapter 2

Most scholars agree that the Righteous Man, should he indeed have been a real person, was one of the victims of Revelation Industries. Records of that time are hard to come by, many being destroyed in the rebellions of the colony worlds in the 27th Century, but many sources claim that he underwent brutal torture, rape, and abuse at the hands of a man known only as Alastair. Whether these documents contain any truth is still debatable, most being highly corrupted or copies of the original, but it can be ascertained that he was not one of the victims rescued by authorities in 2557AD, the names of whom have survived to present day.

-The Angel and the Righteous Man, Origins and History of a Legend  
By Carver Edlund

Dean comes back to himself slowly. He feels more relaxed than he has done in years, despite the faint headache that he attributes to crying himself to sleep.

_Hello, Dean._

He almost falls out of his chair and curses himself out loud for forgetting that he’s probably insane.

_No, Dean. Insanity is not one of the quite extensive list of psychological problems that you seem to have acquired._

“I’m sorry. I’m hearing voices in my head. That’s not generally seen as a sign of sanity,” he replies acerbically. He helpfully adds to himself that replying to the voices in his head is also far from the world of the sane. The rough voice is firm and assured, but somehow gentle along with it.

_Do you remember you last session with Alastair?_

Dean does. Kind of. There are flashes of pain and him begging Alastair to stop, please stop, I’ll do anything. 

_You’re doing great, Dean. Now focus on what he was talking about towards the end._

The world dissolves around him and he’s suddenly back in the testing lab, strapped to the table with Alastair leering over him. He’s barely coherent, out of his mind with the pain of whatever new serum Alastair has burning through his veins. 

“This is fun, Dean. Watching you… struggle. Watching you beg. You have nobody but yourself to blame if you’re not enjoying my attention, Dean. You agreed to it. To it all.” Alastair has an unpleasant, nasal voice that’s impossible to block out.

Dean whimpers. His body attempting to flinch away from Alastair’s hand even as it craves the contact, soft fingers trailing through his hair.

“I have a new test I want to do today. I think I should warn you, none of my apprentices have survived, but I have high hopes for you.”

Dean fights the urge to vomit. A few weeks ago, he would have rationalized that Alastair calling him his apprentice was merely a means of control. Now, he can’t bring together a coherent enough thought to do anything but hope that he survives. Death has long since ceased to be something he desires. He hopes that he makes Alastair proud, even as a part of his brain revolts against the very idea of it. Complicit in his own torture.

Azazel wheels in a gurney with another person on it. The guy is big, maybe as big as he is, with dark tousled hair and lightly-tanned skin. He has no scars, unlike himself. Dean would have found the man attractive in any other situation. He has a huge pair of feathery black wings that he’s lying on, folded tight on his back, but not enough to conceal them. Gamma Enterprises had experimented with animal DNA, combining it with humans’ to create hybrids. He wasn't aware that they had been successful.

Alastair moves the body until they are lying side-by-side. The man’s eyes are shut, although he appears to be breathing normally. He’s not tied down and Dean can’t help but be envious of him and his unconciousness.

“Now this, Dean, is an angel.” He pauses, gesturing to the wings that the guy is lying on. “Funny thing, these angels. They have a highly developed neural interface in their true form. They share thoughts. They could be the breakthrough we need to start up neural transfers again, if we could just get one to bond to a human without killing the subject.”

Alastair sighs. “I didn't want to have to resort to you, Dean. Especially when you’re so pretty and scream so beautifully for me. So empathetic still, you haven’t lost that. But, alas. You’re...”

The pain flares suddenly and Dean misses the next part of what Alastair is saying, too caught up in his own agony to concentrate on the world around him.

He rejoins the world as Alastair is connecting wires between him, the man, and to the machines in the far corner. Alastair flips a switch and a new wave of intense pain crashes down upon him as he blacks out.

He remembers waking up in his cell, wrists chained to the wall. He’d escaped, with the addition of the-voice-in-his-head.

He crashes back into his memories, drowning in the terror and distress and suffering.

_Dean. You’re safe. You’re not there anymore. You’re in a spacecraft. Open your eyes._

He bursts out of the memory, chest heaving. He’s somehow tucked into a corner of the ship, curled into a small ball to protect himself from the blows that aren't coming. It’s pathetic.

“What the hell are you?” he asks angrily, ignoring the way his voice tremors.

_I’m an angel. That’s what your species calls me._

“I’m sorry, pal, but shouldn't angels have halos and harps and shit. I didn't realize they were in the habit of possessing people like me.” Well done Dean. Arguing with yourself.

_I don’t think my species has any resemblance to the angels of Judeo-Christian mythology, Dean. We’re, in fact, more close to sponges in our true-form._

“Well, yeah. That’s the point. Wait. You say you’re an angel, you came from that body. And he definitely had wings, which is weird enough, but he wasn't a _sponge_.”

_Ah, yes. Alastair tried to get me to inhabit my own body first, the one used was quite brain-dead, no consciousness to speak of, but my kind are used to neural connections. The strain was too much for me without an active host._

“A host? Wait. A neural connection? Can you access my memories?” he asks, heart pounding at the idea of someone getting closer to him than even Alastair had managed.

_I can. Your memories are quite interesting, so many new concepts._

“Get out of my head!” Dean roars, suddenly terrified by what the thing might find there. His worthlessness and all his mistakes. He doesn't want this _thing_ to think of him as useless.

_Dean? I’m merely using them to understand what you’re saying? Why are you upset?_

“Privacy dude! Ever heard of it?” he asks. At least it’s not rifling through his head for fun, so it says. It sounds sincere, but then so had Sam before he stopped returning Dean's calls.

_No, not before this. My brothers and sisters are in constant contact with each other. I believe you would describe it as a hive-mind. I have already accessed the majority of your memories. Apologies. Though as it is upsetting you I will limit myself to the knowledge only and not the memories themselves in the future. That and the sensory input systems in your brain._

“What the fuck? Get out of my head!”

_I can’t._

“What do you mean you can’t?” Dean would rather be angry than panicking. Not to mention the fact that this thing had already seen everything in his head. That was too much leverage.

_I’m bonded to you. I can only transfer into others, or back into my true-form, which Alastair destroyed._

“So, what. You’re a parasite?” he spits out. He ignores the weird sense of loss that he’s almost certain he’s picking up from the other creature.

_Our relationship would best be described as symbiotic. I help you, you help me._

“And if I want you gone? If I don't care whether you live or die?” he ignores the fact that the angel had just insinuated that they had any sort of relationship outside of occupier and occupied.

_You’d die too._

“Great. That’s just. Fan-friggin’-tastic.” He’d just escaped. He wasn't going to kill himself even if he had picked up a squatter who couldn't get out.

_If you can find me a suitable host, then I’m willing to leave._

Dean pauses with the argument. He hasn't quite bought that this thing isn't just some weird construct his addled mind has come up with, but he’s not going to let some other poor bastard get possessed over him.

“Dude. You’re not getting in anybody else’s head. Hell, I don’t want you in my head!”

_You have no way to remove me without killing yourself and me, which I will not allow. I got you out of that place and I can drag you back, kicking and screaming until there is nothing left of you but a gibbering mess. You have no other choice but to accept me._

Dean freezes, tucked into the corner with his hands clutching his head. He has no choice but to do what the thing says. He’s cold. There’s an empty sensation spreading through him. He retches, bile the only thing he can bring up. It stings the back of his throat, causing hot tears to well in his eyes. It’s the most he’s cried in a long time and he can’t understand why he can’t just get a grip.

“Yeah. Well, fuck you,” he croaks out.

The-voice-in-his-head is silent.

 _I apologize._ It says after a while. _I would do no such thing. I overreacted._ The gravelly voice is steeped in remorse.

_I know what sort of man Alastair is; he ripped me from my brothers and sisters. I would not force us to return to him even if it resulted in our deaths._

“Well sorry if I’m not going to believe my invader,” Dean snaps.

_Invader is a loaded term. I’m not going to take over your body. That would be immoral, not to mention unethical. I’m simply going to share space with you._

“Dude, I don’t know you. And I don’t trust you either. What can a sponge even know about morality?” Dean shifts uncomfortably.

_Yes, I was a sponge. My intelligence comes from the fact that I’m embedded into your central nervous system. If I bonded with a less intelligent life-form we wouldn't be able to have this conversation. When I was linked with my brothers and sisters, however, we combined to create a joint mind that had intellectual abilities far beyond a human._

“So what you’re saying is that you don’t have your own sense of self? It’s all tied up with your host?” he questions, trying not to sound curious. Even if the curiousness is buried under a sense of unease at having something in his head that he never wanted there.

_No. Not quite. I have kept my name and I have many memories. The scientists talk. Even as I was lying in my second body, the one with the wings, I was aware of my surroundings. You simply give me a platform to process and understand those memories._

“You have a name?” Dean finds himself asking.

_Yes. My name is Castiel._

Well it certainly made Castiel more relatable.

“Look. Castiel. I get that we’re in a pretty shitty situation. But you have get that I can’t trust you right now. I-” Alastair flashed through his head suddenly. Being tied down with no way of fighting back. Pain and torment and fire and no. Please no. Not again.

_You cannot give your trust because the thought of you being culpable in another loss of bodily autonomy is too painful for you. I understand._

Castiel’s voice was calm and even. Almost soothing. There's a lack of judgement or pity that's refreshing. Then he remembers that Castiel’s a dick that invaded his head.

_However, Dean I did not have a choice either. At the time I was a singular angel, trapped alone in a body that was driving me slowly mad. I had no mechanism to comprehend what was happening, let along stop it from occurring. I am sorry for what you are going through right now, especially when you have come out of an extremely traumatic experience, but please do not blame me for this. We are both victims of Alastair._

“No, no. It’s okay.” It’s my fault he adds silently. Too afraid to confirm what he’s known all along out loud. After all, he did agree to come to Alastair’s. A one year contract. Which is something else he’s going to have to work out, one year he was meant to complete and he’s only done four months. Sure, he never would have said yes without the threats Azazel was making against Sam and Jess, or the financial incentive that he received to make sure Sammy could go to college, but it was still his choice.

They are both in an untenable situation. So Dean does what he does best. He adapts. Pushes his fears and his worries and the feeling of being violated and _wrong_ down and shifts into logic and pragmatism.

“Right. If we’re going to be stuck like this for a while,” Dean doesn't want to say forever. The idea that they won’t be able to fix this is unacceptable. “Dude, we need to lay out a few ground rules.”

_I would be amenable to your suggestions. As I am no longer accessing your memories directly, I have very little concept on what it means to be human, outside of unending solitude and mortality._

Wait. Mortality. Angels were immortal? Did that make him immortal? No. He’s not an angel. Just had an extra passenger in his head.

“Uh. You said mortality…” Dean trails off. He’s not entirely sure he wants to know the answer, but it’s one of the things he needs to know.

_Yes, Dean. We do not age and can self-replenish indefinitely. Our cells are much like the Earth species jellyfish, or cancer cells._

“And. Did- did this transfer over?”

Castiel is silent for a moment. There’s a weird tingling sensation that starts at the top of his head and ripples down his body, the wave cresting gently over the curve of his hips, a gentle caress that leaves him breathless.

“What the fuck was that?” he gasps.

_I… Um… I…_

Castiel stutters, obviously flustered and sounding unsure for the first time since he appeared in Dean’s head. For some reason it comforts Dean. It makes Castiel seem more human, though he is nothing of the sort, he’s less infallible. Dean grins, feeling more in control of the situation, any situation, than he has been in a long time.

“Dude, if you wanted to feel me up you only had to ask.” Dean grins. He has no idea where his flirty attitude has materialized from. It feels wrong, the way it always has, but on top of Alastair the insinuation makes him nauseous. Maybe the fact that Castiel is the first creature to have touched Dean with kindness for an eternity has made him latch on.

_It was not my intent to be arousing. I was merely ascertaining if your hypothesis that my presence had made you immortal was correct._

That stops any lingering happiness Dean might have at the moment. He straightens his back where he’s leaning against the MX52’s wall.

“And?” he asks. Not sure if he’s more scared of not knowing the answer or finding out the truth.

_My being here seems to have transferred my restorative powers to you. I’m sorry._

That’s something he’s going to have to adjust to. And plan for. Humans have been reaching for immortality for centuries and still haven’t found the key. He’ll be hunted. He’ll have to constantly shift, moving between star-systems and planets like one of the nomadic people of old. Though it’s something he’s been doing his entire life, so it’s not going to be a sudden change in lifestyle. He certainly won’t be able to let Sam see him more than once or twice. His very presence will put everyone he loves in danger. Which leaves him with Castiel, and only Castiel, as a source of companionship. But not alone.

“Okay then.” Dean’s mind is racing, planning and strategizing and building. If he’s being honest with himself, he never truly expected to make it out of Alastair’s alive, so he has very few plans to alter.

“Wait. I still don’t know if you’re even real. Just…” he pauses to rummage through some of the gray overhead lockers, locating a med-scanner. “Lemme do this scan and then we can talk some more.” He shouldn't have asked permission. This was still his body, even if he had picked up a roommate.

He carefully clips the scanner around his wrist, heads over to the pilot’s chair and brings up the scanner readout up on-screen. It’s pretty normal. All body systems are functioning at average to above-average levels, he’s malnourished, but that’s no surprise. He’s in surprisingly good health, although the system is quickly picking up the number of small injuries and larger scars he’s managed to accumulate. He gets flagged for psychological evaluation. As if he needs to be told that.

Dean’s seen what trauma can do to a human being. His father, and to a certain extent his four-year-old-self, is all the training he’s ever going to need in order to recognize when someone’s head has gotten screwed up.

His brain scan, however, brings up some interesting results. There’s obvious altered brain-chemistry since he last saw one of these. Unsurprisingly, a psychiatrist would have a field-day with what he’s seeing on the display, reduced levels of serotonin, dopamine and monoamine: all indicators of psychological disturbance. There’s one thing that has the scanner confused and flagging for further tests, however. It’s a strange deviation. There appears to be two distinct sets of brainwaves. One is obviously his own, unique variation of electrical impulses that make him, him. The computer searches the database before he can stop it and confirms it as his own.

He’ll have to ditch the ship as soon as he touches down. Any hacker would have easy access to that, and he would rather Alastair didn't recapture him. The other brainwave pattern is unidentified. Which rarely happens. Most kids are entered into the system at ten, their intelligence and empathy scores carefully linked to DNA profile, iris scan, preliminary brain scan and health-check. The UAP updates their file at twenty-one, as neural pathways haven’t developed properly at age ten, but unless severe situational trauma or changes take place, the preliminary scan can often predict well for later life.

Dean’s had been outstanding. Empathy levels so high that he’d had to go through an extra battery of tests to make sure he wasn't a telepath. Which would have been easier in the long run; telepaths were protected by the law even as they were feared by it. Empathy tests were normally just a precaution, used to weed out telepathic ability. Low-scorers weren't considered a problem or even lesser unless they were coupled with sadistic tendencies, which were flagged for monitoring. His intelligence tests had been scarily high as well, considering he had a scattered schooling from over a dozen star-systems, and most self-taught using online books. It was also the first time he was pushed into Alastair’s crosshairs.

The man had approached his father shortly after Dean had been released wanting permission to perform some additional tests on Dean, and willing to pay a substantial amount of money to do so. Luckily John had been in a particularly sober state that day, worried that the UAP would take Sammy from him if Dean’s tests showed too much damage, both physically and psychologically. He’d grabbed Dean, taken them back to their Beta-Class 2Y5-IMPALA and taken off, heading to a small, mostly agricultural system before Alastair had even gotten a good look at Dean.

Not that it had done much good in the end.

Dean blinks out of his memories, removing the med-scanner from his wrist.

His scans are too good, too healthy for someone who’s been tortured and pushed to the brink of survival for four months. He has a sneaking suspicion why.

“Have you been fiddling with my body?” is the first question asked. No way should he be this healthy.

_I merely fixed some lingering problems that would have become a more serious if left unattended._

“Can you not, in the future? Please. At least without asking first.” There’s desperation coloring his tone as he realizes just how removed Castiel is from "normal" human behavior. Though there’s a small amount of gratitude that he won’t have to visit a hospital, to have other people know what happened. He can’t afford it anyway. He waits expectantly for Castiel to answer.

_Certainly. I will abide by your request. Unless you are unconscious or otherwise incapacitated, I will not interfere with your body without permission._

“I thought you said I’m immortal?”

_We are. I did not say invulnerable._

Dean doesn't miss the we.

“So if I got injured…” Or tried to rip you out of my head, he tags on.

_I suppose we would die. I can’t fix everything._

“Right. So. Yeah. Immortality. Now we know you’re real there’s a couple of things I’d like you not to do.” Dean’s eyes were drooping, but he didn't want to sleep without laying out some rules clearly and concisely for Castiel. The guy had already messed with his body, there was no knowing what he’d do when Dean fell asleep.

_No looking at your memories, no alterations to your body and no taking over your body without permission or your becoming incapacitated._

“For starters. If you do anything else weird that I don’t like, I’ll tell you.”

_That’s a reasonable request. I confess to not understanding human customs very well, especially without the context provided in your memories._

It’s easy to forget that they’re having a conversation in his head, and that Castiel isn't human, or even completely separate from him. Too easy. It’s all too confusing and too much and Dean doesn't have enough energy to deal with anything else today. His talk with Castiel has left him feeling raw and split-open.

“’kay. I’m going to get some shut-eye so leave any questions until I wake up.”

_I see. No interruptions while you sleep._

If Castiel, the weird sponge alien that’s calling itself an angel says anything else, Dean doesn't hear, instead sinking into unconsciousness to dream of darkness and torture.


	3. Chapter 3

There are many theories surrounding the legendary bond the two men share: some have suggested that it is a selective telepathic link, others that they are simply weak telepaths, and a few have put forward the view that the two simply have a close relationship, able to read body language, rather than directly sharing thoughts with one another. A rarer theory takes the more romantic idea that they are soulmates, two halves on one soul born into separate bodies. This, of course, is completely unfounded in scientific fact. Whichever it was becomes irrelevant without solid historical proof of their existence. What is clear is that they were two separate people, with a solid emotional attachment to one another, though the nature of their bond remains a highly debated subject amongst intellectuals.

-The Angel and the Righteous Man, Origins and History of a Legend  
By Carver Edlund

He wakes screaming, drenched in a cold sweat and shaking hard enough that the pilot’s seat is having difficulty compensating.

_Hello, Dean._

It’s been like this for days, Dean falling asleep only to wake terrified and disorientated. He dreams of Alastair over and over. Of being torn apart again and again, rippling waves of pain that come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time, begging and pleading to deaf ears to just stop. Please. The intensity of the dreams makes it hard to distinguish nightmare and reality as he emerges from the haze of pain, and more than once he’s had to be talked down from a full blown panic-attack, Castiel carefully convincing him that he’s safe. Occasionally Abaddon and Azazel make it into his nightmares too, cruel hands and smiles as they use medical instruments and tools to violate everything that was ever his.

_I have a few more questions that I would like to ask._

That’s another thing he’s rapidly getting used to: Castiel doesn't push or ask for information more than once. He leaves well alone when Dean tells him to, which he’s thankful for. He’d rather take his time to come to terms with what happened, collect his thoughts and talk about it when he’s ready, than have someone push him to reveal what happened so they can feel better about it. It’s a concept that Sam and his Dad never really grasped. Sam would badger him incessantly and Dad would, well, John would tell him to suck it up and ignore the problem completely. That would lead to Sam telling him that it’s “Just Dad talking Dean, he doesn't actually mean it.” and “Be your own person, stop following his orders blindly.” Neither of which helped when Sam and John fought with each other, using Dean as both shield and ammo for one another. They never quite got round to realizing that it left him caught in the crossfire, unable to choose between the two people he loved most in the world. Seeking the approval of both and instead becoming a disappointment to each of them.

Castiel is refreshingly different. To the point and direct with his questions, and never once has he tried to manipulate Dean into answering before he’s ready. They've covered a bit of human nature, discussing the differences between angel culture and human culture, especially ideas about privacy.

They’re safe topics. There was a horrible moment in the third day of flight when Castiel asked about human methods of reproduction. (Angels apparently just spawn new beings when the time is right. Go figure.) It had led to a horrific flashback to Alastair’s. It was the first time he had been r-. Dean cut himself off. The ghost of Alastair’s breath on the back of his neck and the memory of his pleasure-filled grunts freezing him for a second.

Not a topic to linger on until he was a bit more removed from the situation.

_If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask about human families today. It’s a bit of an abstract concept for me. Every single angel would be considered my family._

Castiel jolts Dean back to the present. His voice calming and soothing him as it rambles on.

_We are all connected from the moment we come into being. There are individuals, of course, but we know everything about one another. The hopes, doubts, fears. Some are closer than others, but it’s not a problem as we do not require strong bonds of companionship as humans seem to. So why is it that humans organize themselves into family units? Surely the community as a whole would benefit from raising children, and put less strain on individual families?_

That had been a funny conversation. It turns out that angels are born straight into adulthood with a full scope of emotion and understanding. The hive-mind lets them share information, so there’s no need for them to learn to talk and stuff that all humans have to go through.

“Nah. You've got it all wrong,” Dean begins, lifting his feet to rest them on the console. “Humans aren't all connected like you guys. But we want to be close to each other. Have someone to talk to, and share all your secrets with and shit.”

_So you’re inherently social creatures?_

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean says, pleased. And then takes in a sudden gasp of breath when he realizes he just gave Castiel a nickname. Sure, he’s been getting along quite well with him, but it changes nothing about the fact that Castiel is in Dean’s head.

There’s an awkward pause in which Dean waits for Cas to comment on his new name, but it doesn't come, so Dean carries on.

“We don’t so much go in for lots of relationships, some people do. But most people have family, related by blood, and a few close friends. Families can be small or large, but usually it’s two parents and their kids. There are grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins and stuff. But they won’t all live together usually,” he explains.

_And the parents? How is it decided whom should mate with whom?_

Dean chokes a little in amusement at Cas’ choice of words, but it’s better than using something less scientific.

“Generally only those who care for each other would end up having kids. But it doesn't always happen,” they’re straying towards the concept of single-parenting. Something that Dean has intimate knowledge with. It’s been long enough in Dean’s head since his Dad died that he can talk about him freely. But his childhood was one of the things Alastair used to torment him with, and he doesn't want to risk another panic attack that Cas will have to pull him out of. He’s enough of a burden already.

_So it’s a decision based in emotion._

“Yeah. I guess. People who are in love.” His parents had been in love. And that’s why John fell apart after his Mom’s death.

_What about your family, Dean? We’re heading towards a brother, correct?_

Yeah. That was a stupid, in the heat of the moment decision. He’s leading Alastair right to his brother. But he needs to ditch the ship as soon as possible, and needs somewhere safe to transfer. And the IMPALA is with Sam. If nothing, he’ll be able to have one last goodbye in person.

“Um,” he begins. Because Cas is going to be with him when he sees Sammy. So needs the background information. “We’re going to see Sam, my brother. He’ll want to know I’m okay, that I didn't just disappear on him, and I’ll give him a heads up about Alastair.”

Dean doesn't add that Sam had told Dean to not contact him, and that his worries about Sam even noticing his absence are unfounded. Cas remains quiet, which is Cas-speak for continue.

“Well, shit Cas,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his face.

_You do not have to speak of your family if you do not wish to._

It’s the quiet acceptance of his boundaries that decides it for Dean. Cas has been respectful, and he needs to talk about it. He never talked about himself and his feelings to anyone outside of the special AI he developed in the IMPALA, called Benny. Benny used to be his go-to coping mechanism, but he hasn't had the chance in a while, so he puts his fragile trust in Castiel.

“No, no. It’s alright. Just something I don’t share very often.” Or at all, Dean adds on. “Uh. When I was born, it was just me, my Mom and Dad. Everything was great. And then my Mom got pregnant with Sam.”

_I see. Sibling rivalries._

Dean snorts. “I wish. We were on a population controlled planet. Persephone. That’s what it was called. It wasn't built to hold the number of colonizers who came there. They had really strict laws. One child per family.” He pauses. As a four-year-old he hadn't really understood what was happening, but he pieced it together as he grew up, learning from holovids and archived data-streams while his Dad was passed out drunk. “You had to rectify any increase in population you caused. Either Sam or I would have been sent off-world. And the UAP isn't particularly great at placing abandoned children.” It would have been better if he had been sent away. Sam would have grown up happy and loved by two parents. “We left as soon as we could. Got on a colony ship called Lawrence bound for the planet Demeter.”

He draws a breath to prepare himself for what he’s about to say next. The only person he ever talked to about this in detail, was Benny.

“There was a fault with those ships. Our room caught fire. I got Sam out and Dad tried to get Mom, but the door sealed itself before he could get to her.”

If Castiel had been human, he’d have known about the Lawrence. How so many people died because the ship was faulty. How his Mom was just one of hundreds. All he would have needed to say was that his Mom had been on the Lawrence and they would have known.

“The ships systems had a glitch. They evacuated rooms into space even when there was someone still there. My Mom got sucked out into the vacuum and died, if she wasn't already dead due to the fire. Sometimes I hope she was.” He’d looked up every source on what happens to people when they are exposed to space. None of the sources agreed, and since the death penalty had been abolished for centuries and murder so taboo that it made headlines across the entire United Allied Planets, there was no way to test the theories. He knew it was morbid, but it was how he coped in the aftermath of her death. Especially since his dad refused to talk about it.

“We got to Demeter, Sam was just a baby, and had already lost his Mom. Dad fell apart. Bought the IMPALA with the payoff from the Lawrence and planet-hopped. I looked after him as best I could and practically raised Sammy. But. She was the love of his life. He didn't deserve that.” His Dad had tried so hard. But raising two little boys on his own had never been the plan, and without his wife he had been an absent father at best.

_I see. It must have been hard for you, growing up so fast. How old were you when your mother passed?_

It’s weird. For a brief moment it sounded like Castiel actually cared outside of the clinical approach he always took when asking questions.

“I was four,” he replies. Definitely not his favorite topic of discussion, but who was Cas going to tell?

There’s a moment of silence. Dean’s palms start to sweat and maybe he’s pissed off Cas. In his life he’s not learnt much but silence has always been a sign that he’s messed up.

_But humans do not reach maturity before eighteen. And are not fully developed until sometime into their twenties, correct?_

That’s not the line of questioning he expects. There should be accusations of how he should have done more, should have been better, stronger, faster, something. But then he realizes that Cas doesn't know how badly he screwed up Sam. How he failed with helping his father recover from the loss of the most important thing in his life.

(“It won’t last.”) That’s Alastair’s voice. He was told over and over how his resistance and his spirit would be broken. And he’d proved it.

“Uh,” his voice trembles, sounding shakier out-loud than he was expecting. “Yeah Cas?” he questions.

_Then, Dean, I do not understand. Why was it your job to raise your brother and care for your father?_

That’s new. When people question his decisions he’s used to them assuming that it was his decision. That he actively chose to care for his family at the age of four instead of it being imposed upon him. That he is thus uniquely responsible and a collaborator in the way he and Sam were raised.

Too often the questions are: Why didn't you say something? Why did you allow this to continue? Why didn't you do more to get out?

They’re right. He should have done something before it pushed Sam away and before his father fell so far into alcoholism that he couldn't recover. But being right doesn't mean he’ll answer, outside of “I don’t know,” or “I should have.” A lifetime of regret in hindsight.

Of course, after that would come it wasn't your fault. As if the statement suddenly absolved Dean of any responsibility he had. As if their first questions _hadn't_ automatically condemned him.

Cas would be different, of course. The alien in his head wants to know why it was his job instead of why he kept quiet.

“Well. Mom was gone,” he starts. He’s had so many years explaining the results that he’s never truly thought about how it started. “Dad had watched his wife die. And all because I was already alive. He needed time to grieve, but Sammy was just a baby. So I looked after him. I was his big brother and big brothers are meant to look after the younger ones. And,” he pauses. He has to make Cas understand about his father. How he loved him even as he despised him. How he praised him to everyone he met whilst hating the man in the safety of his own mind. How he blamed him, but understood him and adored any attention he received from him. How the affection he sought was so often replaced with disappointment or an angry fist.

Benny had never understood, his programming running on rigid logical function, set within the boundaries of learnt behaviors and human laws rather than the more flexible and abstract concept of the human mind. Neither Sam, nor any of his friends could grasp the concept that Dean could love his abuser. They couldn't understand the duality of hate and love, of trust and betrayal that bound Dean to John.

Even as Sam was praised for his escape, Dean was condemned for his devotion.

Contrary to popular belief, Dean did know that a four-year-old could in no way be held responsible for raising a six-month-old baby, that ignoring Dean as a child and expecting him to behave to unreachable standards was wrong, and that being struck as a form of punishment was equally so. But knowing those things and applying them to himself was something he had never quite achieved. It’s easy enough to write off the opinions of someone who hasn't experienced it. Who didn't see their mother die and their father crumble. Who didn't still see the flashes of the Dad who ruffled his hair, who gave him a kiss goodnight and spun him around like he was the most precious thing in the world when they were out in the park.

And that would always be the kicker for Dean. The dichotomy between his loving father, his Dad, and Sir, the drunken, broken man who didn't say a word to him unless to criticize or touch unless to hurt. Looking back now, Dean wonders if maybe his Dad knew about what would he would submit to and do with Alastair. Sir punishing him for his wicked heart and pathetic future.

_Dean?_

He’s pulled out of his introspection by Cas. Again coming to distract him from the weight of the memories he won’t share.

“Dad loved Mom so much, Cas. And I loved him. I couldn't let him go, not after I lost Mom. And it ended up hurting us all,” he admits softly.

 _Do you blame yourself for every unfortunate situation you have lived through?_ Castiel tries to attempt humor, but it comes off as sad.

“Well. Only the ones I deserved,” he replies. It’s becoming a little too touching and emotional between the two of them. He feels waves of prickly unease touching the back of his neck lightly, passing down his shoulder blades and lower back. A loose shake of the shoulders can’t quite rid him of the feeling. Because the last person he had told any of that to was Alastair. And he used it to his advantage.

He doesn't _think_ Cas would hurt him. After all, hurting Dean hurts him too. But he’s not willing to trust him with everything.

_How can you think you deserved any of it?_

Cas sounds upset. So sad that poor little Dean has had a hard life. Poor little Dean with his deadbeat-dad and cute little brother. It’s laced with pity that Dean can never accept.

“Look, Cas. You’re gonna learn soon that I’m not a good person. Everything and everyone I love goes to shit. And I’m the connecting factor. I've done bad things, probably going to do more of them in the future as well. So you don’t know me. And you can’t evaluate my worth based on what I've told you. It’s skewed in my favor.”

_And that statement tells me why you are to be believed. You are more worried that you have taught me wrong than you are about me changing my opinion of you._

That, right there, was why he was going to end up disappointing Cas. Dean had let down so many people in his life, and he’s going to let Cas down too. The only difference this time is that Cas can’t run away from Dean's pathetic excuse of a life. He’s trapped.

“Well. You’ll see,” Dean says. “Can we be done with this conversation now?”

Cas has him backed into a corner. He’s wrung out emotionally by the conversation, and if he has any hope of reaching Sam sane in three days’ time, then they need to stop now.

_Okay, then. Can we carry on talking about your myths and legends? I find it hard to believe that the very publication of Harry Potter didn't expose everything to the Muggle world? If it’s a commonly known fact, then it’s hardly a secret?_

Dean laughs, it sounds a little forced but he’ll make do. “Harry Potter never existed. He’s a work of fiction.”

Castiel’s outraged gasp is more than enough to push him into full-blown laughter.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair word of warning, there are pretty graphic depictions of torture in this chapter.
> 
> Terminology:  
> Established World: A planet that has been running for over 100 years successfully, technologically advanced.  
> Home World: Planets from the Solar System  
> Colony World: Newly established planets, often far out from the Solar System  
> Shatterworld: Failed colony wold that has fallen into anarchy  
> Telepath Planet: Exactly what it sounds like  
> Peon: Derogatory term for planet-hoppers

In a few of the lesser-known myths about the Angel and the Righteous Man, there is mention of a brother. It is said that this man was a good man, proud and tall, and that he became estranged from the Righteous Man at around the time the story begins. If it can be said that little is known about the origins of the pair that are so embedded in human culture today, then less is known about this man. Unlike the main men the legend centers around, however, most sources agree that the brother is the esteemed 26th Century lawyer and judge, Sam Winchester. There are no surviving records of his family members.

-The Angel and the Righteous Man, Origins and History of a Legend  
By Carver Edlund

It takes them just over a week to reach Sam. And just over a week for them to truly become _them_. Dean and Castiel. Together. Literally forever. They need to work as a pair now.

Dean’s initially reluctant to leave the safety of the ship. He’s grown used to the dull metallic gray of the walls and the sparse utilitarian feel of the ship, where the greatest privacy was the closed of bathroom and everything was fitted for dual purpose.

He finds colonizer clothes in a cupboard built in under one of the beds. Coarse woolen fabrics, trousers, a long-sleeved tunic that makes it half-way down his thighs, topped with a sleeveless black overcoat that reaches his knees. He’s glad for the hood that will allow him some measure of anonymity.

He keeps Azazel’s amulet.

They touch down at a public drop-site, choosing to land on the planet directly instead of one of the orbiting space-platforms. It’s near enough to Sam’s college that they can walk there. If Sam is, in fact, there. All the signs point to the fact that he’s been with Alastair for four standard months.

His face hasn't aged a day. He’s still the young 23 year old he was when he left, but even he can see the hollow, haunted look in his eyes. The look he associates with his father. It’s the only evidence he had that what he went through with Alastair even happened.

Castiel speaks gently to him as they move down the crowded streets, Dean shying away from the press of people, flinching if someone touches him by accident. He keeps up a soothing flow of words, staving off Dean’s panic. No questions though, that’ll wait until they’re alone. He’s forewarned that if Dean starts talking to the air, he’s going to draw attention to himself, something they cannot afford.

It’s difficult. More difficult than expected to be out in open space. He’d expected to be happy back amongst people after months of isolation broken only with Alastair or one of the other research staff but he cant turn off his hyper-vigilance. He’s tense, expecting attack from anyone and everyone, there are too many to watch.

Dean’s never been comfortable in cities. The super-structures with their walkways and underpasses, the thrum of a thousand people who know where they’re going, a firm destination in mind. It’s not so much the 3D navigation of cities that puts him off, adding in up and down to the number of directions he can travel in. That’s how space-travel works. Instead it’s the closed-in nature of cities, the forced cleanliness and shine of artfully placed windows. Most areas are inaccessible and someone as simply dressed as he is garners attention. Colonizers are rarely seen in cities.

There are always whispers that colonizers are the stupid. That they’re uneducated and the freaks of society. Dean doesn't agree. Having spent half his life planet-hopping, he grew up with a different view to most that live on long-established worlds. Colonizers are friendly. Usually a little wary of outsiders initially, but non-judgmental. They work incredibly hard on the boarder and out-worlds, building new civilizations whilst keeping the legacy of humanity alive. When things go wrong, and knowledge is lost, whole planets can descend rapidly into a primitive pre-industrial, subsistence farming state. The UAP considers it too much trouble to help such worlds, so they’re simply left alone, blocked off from the stars. Shatterworlds are a good place to hide, but dangerous.

The only trouble he really had growing up, aside from his father, was with established or home worlds. Even the telepath planet they briefly lived on and various other seceded planets they’d stopped off at hadn't had the overwhelming sense of superiority that people on planets like this one had. Sam, they had loved. The nomadic planet-hopper child with a thirst for knowledge and a big smile who could do so much better than his delinquent brother and absent father. It had polarized the two brothers. Dean preferred colony worlds, Sam liked established worlds. John did'’t care as long as they didn't draw attention to themselves. It’s a habit Dean’s never got out of.

He reaches the university quickly. It’s more open, the buildings mostly joined by open parts of flat ground. There’s even a small fountain, which, for someone who’s spent time living in a spaceship with water-reclamation systems as the only source of drinking water, it’s an incredible waste.

Sammy would like it though.

The visitor’s front desk is sleek and shiny, wrapping the young receptionist with the perfectly coiffed hair in a sterile embrace.

He puts on a smile, knowing that it doesn't reach his eyes and asks the man if he has the address of a Samuel Winchester.

He takes a good look at Dean, eyes giving him the customary once-over before his features settle into a subtle sneer.

“We don’t give out the personal information of our esteemed students on request,” he says, turning his back to him to enter something into the computer-interface behind him.

_He seems nice._

Dean has to stop himself from laughing out loud, passing it off as a cough before making his situation a little clearer. It’s been too long since he’s had to deal with these kinds of people.

“Yeah. I’m sure. He also happens to be my brother,” he elaborates.

The receptionist spins around to face him, eyes widening with surprise. “My original statement still stands. No matter what your relation to Sam, I’m not going to give out information to you. Especially as he obviously _doesn't_ want you to find him.”

Dean forces a smile to his face, all levity that Cas brought with his dry comment fading.

“Well, let’s see. He’s underage. And I’m his legal guardian until he turns twenty-one so, yes. You will be handing over his current address.”

The guy’s face flicks through several emotions, disbelief and anger, barely suppressed disdain and finally resignation.

“I need to do a biometric scan to confirm your identity.” he says icily.

Dean suppresses a sigh. If he had more time he’d teach the receptionist how to truly estimate someone from a look. Their eyes, their stance, and the way people used language was far more important that what they wore. And if they were actively attempting to hide, then there was no way to do it with any degree of certainty.

“I understand,” he says. “But I would request that you delete the confirmation after its completion.” It’s not an uncommon request, especially for off-worlders. It means that hackers have to be connected to the main-frame to see the scan rather than merely connected to the system. It won’t hide him from Alastair, of that he has no illusions, but it will delay him.

“Something to hide?” the man asks primly. His overwhelming sense of superiority grates, but Dean continues to behave cordially.

“No, I just grew up believing in freedom of movement.” It’s something most colony worlds share. The idea that people have a right to travel without a breach of privacy and without somebody being able to pinpoint your location. People living on these established worlds tend to trade privacy for security, often having chips implanted that pinpoint their position.

“Of course, sir.” He manages to make his agreement as condescending as possible.

Dean stretches out his hand, placing it lightly on the reception desk. There’s a familiar prickle as the biometric scan kicks in, and the receptionist gives a sharp nod.

“Your credentials are impeccable Mr. Winchester. Your brother lives at this address.” He brings it up on the display until he realizes that Dean isn't carrying any kind of personal-aid or computer device. There’s a disapproving snort as the receptionist makes his feelings clear.

Paper is rather redundant on established worlds.

_It’s fine. I've got it._

Dean doesn't question. Not at this moment. He simply smiles and thanks the gentleman for his time before heading back out into the sun.

He rounds the corner, checks he’s alone and whispers, “How exactly do you have this?”

_Perfect recall._

“Okay. We’ll talk about this later. These worlds aren't good with privacy.” He glances up briefly, scanning the area for cameras. There are at least four. “I’d rather not get locked up for talking to myself. So, just give me instructions for now?”

_I’ll guide you, Dean. Do not fear._

They make it to Sam’s apartment, off campus, without incident, the streets are quieter as he moves towards a residential area of the city. He receives the expected sideways glances and snide whispers, but he lets them roll off him with ease. He isn't a fourteen-year-old boy trying to hold his family together anymore.

There’s still an undercurrent of unease passing under his skin, waiting to break out and drown him in waves of fear and panic, but Cas keeps up the stream of directions, interspersing them with his observations of their surroundings. There’s a childlike wonder in everything he says which Dean finds both comforting and endearing.

It’s in a nice neighborhood. Bare and clean like all nice neighborhoods are. The buildings they call apartments on Zarus are nothing like the apartments on some of the out-worlds. Each apartment has its own entrance, split from the main path and there are layers of entrances, all open to the communal roads rather than one common entrance from the street. It’s more like a section of houses that are joined together from the sides and from above than traditional apartments.

Everything is white on the outside, the windows impenetrable to the gaze of humans. The door is obvious, outlined biometric access panel to the right.

Dean’s disgusted at how easy he finds it to hack into his brother’s home. His skill in hacking is pretty basic, someone like Charlie could do far worse damage, but Sam hasn't even put in basic protections. At least his biometric panel is actually integrated into the locking mechanism of the door, so Dean can’t just rewire it.

Once he’s in, he takes a look around the quiet, spotless apartment. It’s comfortable, three rooms. Bedroom, bathroom, living area, but there’s no personal touch. There are no photos, no clutter, if he hadn't spotted a hypoallergenic shampoo in the bathroom he wouldn't have believed Sam lived here.

He’s moving into the bedroom when he hears the door slide open and Sam’s voice, accompanied by someone else, a girl.

“Look, Ruby, you don’t understand. My brother’s a real peon.”

Dean stifles a gasp and suppresses any hurt he receives from the insult. The term was commonly used by established worlds to describe people they considered below them. Boarder planets, colony worlds, telepath, seceded and shatter planets all came under the term. It was a word that they, the lowest of the low, the nomadic planet-hoppers of no fixed address had heard all their lives. He doesn't know who this Ruby is, but as she doesn't object to the term, Dean assumes she’s not good news.

“He’s my brother, and I love him, but I’m actually making a life out here. One that doesn't involve leaving everything I've built in a few months because mysterious dark forces are after us!” his brother’s voice is raised harshly.

“Sam, maybe he just wants to visit? He’s your guardian after all, it’s normal for legal guardians to come check on their charges once in a while,” Ruby says placatingly.

“No. I know my brother. He doesn't just drop by,” Sam twists the words into daggers. “He’ll want something for me, need my help and expect me to drop everything for him, and I can’t do it. I’m finally getting the life I've always dreamed of, and he’s dead weight that I need to cut out of my life.”

Dean can’t breathe. He knew that Sam had a lingering resentment about the way they grew up, but he hadn't ever expected it to bloom so quickly that Sam would want to sever all bonds with his last remaining family. Not permanently. He can’t listen to this anymore, if Sam doesn't want him here, he’ll go.

He takes a fortifying breath, deaf to Castiel telling him that it wasn't what Sam really thought, that Sam was just a young man who was letting off steam, and steps into the main room.

Sam has his back to him, so it’s Ruby, a pretty brunette who Dean would have hit on, because that's what's expected of him, before Alastair, who sees him first. She lets out a shriek and reaches for Sam, who’s quick to turn around, hands at the ready to fend off an attack. Violence may not be seen on planets in the UAP with any regularity, but on out-worlds it was more common.

“Hey, Sam,” Dean chokes out. “Just here for the IMPALA. Guess you were right that I wouldn't come just to see you.”

Sam had left explicit instructions to be left alone, but had agreed to look after the IMPALA when Dean was away. He’d never told Sam where he was going, but he’d needed a safe place to leave baby.

“Uh.” Dean took in the look of anger and shame on his brother’s face. “I’ll be on my way, then. If anyone from Revelation Industries comes looking for me, I was never here. And upgrade your security. A child could break in here. You need to look out for Jess better than this.”

“Shit, Dean…” Sam pauses, eyes in full-blown puppy mode.

“I know, Sam. You never would have said that if I was here. But the thing is, you did. And it’s true. All of it. I’m dead weight and I’m going to drag you down with me.”

“ _No_ , Dean. I was being a brat. We've always had a different idea of what family means, you know that,” Sam justifies. But it’s not enough to stop the ache of Sam confirming everything Alastair ever said to him.

“Yeah. I realize that. Family for me meant giving up everything to help them, simply because they’re my family. But for you, you love us, but you’d rather we didn't exist to spoil your perfect little life. So. Keys, please, and I’ll be on my way.” His heart aches at the way Sam is looking at him, at what Sam had said, but he has to do this. He has to get away from Sam before he ruins everything his little brother has worked for.

He reaches his hand out to Sam, not looking him in the eye, he can’t see the truth reflected there: that he’s nothing more than a way for Sam to get to college. A meal ticket. That would break him.

Sam fumbles with a draw, and the keys are placed in his hand.

Dean glances up at his brother, only to see him recoil when Sam meets his eyes. His stupid, expressive eyes that telegraphed all his emotions to anyone who could decode them. Sam must have caught a glimpse of how much he was hurting, Sam being the final nail in the coffin that was Dean’s self-worth.

“Dean, I’m s-”

Dean cuts him off before Sam can get the apology out. He knows how Sam really feels. And he can’t take a hollow apology from him. He needs the space so he can shatter out of sight.

“Nah. Don’t worry about it. I’m fine. Everything is fine. I’ll just go. Nice to meet you, Ruby,” he gets out, his voice filled with hollow cheer as he shoulders past Sam to the door.

Sam reaches for him, but Dean, caught by instinct, rubbed raw by their tense conversation and not used to people touching him with good intent, lashes out. Before he knows it, Sam up against the wall in an arm-lock, but otherwise unhurt, and Dean’s shaking with adrenaline.

“Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit,” he says, letting go of Sam and backing away. “Oh god Sam. I’m sorry, I just. You were him and I couldn't,” he trails off to find Ruby helping Sam up.

“I think you should go. You got what you came for, didn't you?” Ruby spits.

And she’s right. He’s broken the cardinal promise. Never hurt each other. He needs to go before he ruins Sam’s life more than he evidently has already.

He casts one last terrified glance at Sam, who appears to be about to say something before he’s out of the door and running as fast as he can. He needs to get away.

He’s several blocks away before he stops, heart pounding in his chest. He had hurt Sam. He had panicked and hurt Sam. Sam was hurt. Sam, his brother, he had shoved into a wall. He’d almost dislocated his shoulder.

(“I carved you into a new animal, Dean. There’s no going back.”) Alastair's voice rings in his ears. And he needs to go, get out, get as far away from Sam as possible. Castiel must be disgusted to have to share a body with him. He’s little better than the criminals on Ryker's, the prison planet.

The world spins around him and he’s back with Alastair.

Alastair smiles.

“Hello again, Dean Winchester.”

That’s all he says before picking up a small metal wire with gloved hands. Dean thrashes against his restraints desperately, he knows that wire, the damage it can do. He can’t take it anymore, but he has to. This is for Sam. Sam is worth so, so much more than this. Dean can take a little pain for his brother.

The justification rings hollow in his mind. If Sam could see him now, he’d be so disappointed. He’d told Dean to let him sort it out on his own, that he wanted independence. Dean had ignored him and now he was getting what he deserved for his stupidity.

Alastair starts slowly, skimming the wire gently across Dean’s exposed chest, leaving trails of blood where it touches. Dean strains against his bindings, watching the gleam of pleasure in Alastair's eyes at Dean’s reaction. He’s so weak, they've barely started and he’s already letting Alastair win.

It’s not even painful. Not yet. The cuts sting, but the pain hasn't escalated. He’s having to dig his nails into his palms to prevent any noise from leaking out, but he can’t give Alastair the pleasure of knowing that he’s hurting from this insignificant beginning. He knows at some point he’ll fail, huffing out pained gasps that turn to grunts of pain then begging and screams before his voice gives out to pained whimpers.

_Dean?_

It’s in these early stages, where he’s still coherent enough to know what’s going on around him that he remembers most vividly when he’s alone in his cell. Everything becomes one haze of never-ending pain after a while, and though it doesn't exactly improve the situation, Dean is grateful that he doesn't have to relive every moment of his sessions with Alastair in technicolor detail. He can hear Alastair humming under his breath, he knows it’s a love song. In a twisted sense, he is _precious_ to Alastair. He can smell the salty, copper tang of blood and sweat, layered over the harsh chemical disinfectants Alastair uses. It wouldn't do for his test-subjects to get an infection.

He tries to squash down the tears and fear because they’re only just starting and he can’t give in. Alastair is twisted, savage in his unpredictability, and he delights in forcing Dean to the furthest reaches of suffering. If Dean gives up then he’ll have no further use for him and there’s an uncertainty to what will happen to Dean if he’s no longer worth Alastair's time. 

Everything is in sharp relief, hyper-awareness and sleep-deprivation making it impossible for him to sink into an imaginary world and wait the pain out as he’s been able to do on occasion. He usually sinks into a dream world where his Mom’s alive. Where he’s loved and safe, and worth something more than a quick, empty fuck or a toy to play with. He knows it’s a lie. That Mom would be as disgusted with what he’s become as everyone else. He’s _used_. Broken and bloody and whatever hope he used to have of his life improving, of someone breaking down his walls and not being repelled by his dirty, twisted soul is being stripped away.

Alastair is right. This is all he is good for.

The man wields the wire like a paintbrush, drawing intricate symbols on his chest, and lower, moving towards his abdomen. He’s making Dean into a mangled work of art, a patchwork of scars and burns that reflect who he really is. Anyone who looks at Dean now will know that he’s not worth their time. That he belongs to someone else.

The cuts are deeper than the first and he can barely hold back a scream as Alastair continues, the marks etching a dreadful symmetry across his chest. He suddenly whips the wire down onto Dean’s thigh. It bites deeply into the skin and Dean cries out in agony, unable to bite it back.

“That’s it Dean. Good boy, I know how you love to scream for me,” Alastair purrs.

Dean chokes out a sob, knowing his tears will only make Alastair more proud. He feels filthy, complicit in his own torture. He just hopes Sam can forgive him.

_Dean, please?_

Alastair is grinning at him. Teeth exposed in all their animalistic glory.

“Now, my dearest, tell me how much you enjoyed it. Tell me you want more,” he demands.

Dean shakes his head desperately, he won’t give in. He’s always managed to say no before.

“Come on, Dean. You’re being displeasing, and you know how I get when you upset me.”

Alastair’s eyes darken suddenly, and Dean feels a chill run through him. Alastair’s grin turns feral, as he gently runs the wire down Dean’s arm.

“Okay, Dean. I see how it is. This is all your fault,” he bites out before starting anew. It’s savage and unending and Dean can’t suppress his screams as he begs for Alastair to kill him.

_Dean. You’re safe. It’s okay._

Alastair becomes hazy, before snapping back into definition.

“Oh, Dean,” he says, stroking though his hair. “So beautiful still.”

_It’s Castiel. You’re on Zarus, not back there. You escaped. You’re safe._

The words cut through the memory, and Alastair shimmers out of focus, blending in with the stark white buildings and sun-warmed streets of the planet.

He grips onto it, focusing on Castiel’s voice to find himself sitting in a secluded alley, alone.

Cas is singing softly. It’s not a language Dean recognizes, but it’s soothing to him as he shivers, struggling to get his heart-rate and breathing under control.

It takes a while. He knows the memory Cas pulled him out of. It’s one of his worst. The first time he’d caved to the man. By the end of Alastair’s torture, he’d been pleading with the man to continue. Alastair had smiled and tenderly cared for Dean’s wounds, stroking him possessively while praising him for how good he’d been.

He fights a wave of revulsion, but doesn't drop into another flashback, Castiel a grounding presence for him.

“Hey, Cas,” he croaks when he’s stable enough to talk.

_Hello, Dean… I hope you don’t mind, but you were stuck in that horrible memory and everyone was staring, and someone wanted to call the police. So I took over, just to get you into this alley so we could deal with this. I’m sorry._

It comes out in a gush. Dean waits for the feeling of violation at Castiel taking over his body, but it doesn't come. He’d respected the terms of their agreement. Dean counts his traumatic flashback as incapacitation, and Cas had got them out of the way. He’d saved his ass again.

All in all, he can’t find error in Castiel’s actions. He relays the thought to Cas who is very much relieved that he didn't overstep.

He pinpoints the IMPALA’s location from the key, and soon enough they’re taking off, safe in the sky with no clear destination in sight.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terminology:  
> Common: The language shared between the UAP  
> Holovid: 3D holograms played in realtime.

For the myth of the Angel and the Righteous Man to be believed, one must firstly assume that they do not live in a vacuum, and secondly assume that there are those who know their identity. For the names of these legendary figures to be hidden for so long, assuming that they were once real people, there must be a handful of confidants who have aided them in concealing their identities.

-The Angel and the Righteous Man, Origins and History of a Legend  
By Carver Edlund

Dean’s relaxing in the pilot’s seat listening to Castiel recount some of the legends of the angels (angels had a whole complex series of myths and legends and their own religion, go figure), and lets the soothing rumble of the engine do its work.

The IMPALA has always meant home and safety to him.

She’s a beautiful ship, hard lines and soft curves where most spaceships are utilitarian. Her interior is something Dean’s come to feel a sense of pride in. In the years since his dad died he’d molded her into something that retained all the good memories of his childhood, but was uniquely his.

Just before his dad passed away the man had trashed her, smashing up cabinets, destroying furniture that was bolted to the floor and burning the few possessions Dean and Sam had collected over the years. 

Dean had been so angry. A few Vonnegut books, translated into Common from 20th Century English, painstakingly collected from over fifty worlds where paper books still had a use, a knitted blanket a kindly old schoolteacher had given him when he was ten and came into school without a coat, a photo of him and Sam at Ellen’s. Sam had been distraught at the loss of some of his nicer, home world clothes that he’d saved up for. That, and he’d lost a letter he’d been keeping safe from a sweet girl named Jess, the same Jess he met again at college.

After John Winchester’s death, Dean had taken the time to build his ship back up in the way he wanted. Gone was the harsh functionality of the IMPALA; the dirt and twisted metal, replaced with Dean’s own handiwork.

The kitchen at the back of the ship was kitted out with a mix of donated, collected and handcrafted utensils. None of it matched exactly, but they were close enough that it didn't matter. He’d spent a week cleaning and fixing all the battered appliances, a little longer finding replacement parts for what couldn't be salvaged.

He’d done the same to the rest of the IMPALA, scrubbing both dirt and memories from her interior. He repaired the broken lighting fixtures, fine-tuned both the gravity generator and the engine itself, redecorated Sam’s room (previously John’s) and tinkered with the computer so they couldn't be tracked.

His own room remained a work in progress, though he’d managed to start collecting Vonneguts again.

He’s not spoken since Zarus.

Dean types back responses to Cas, who’s integrated into his visual cortex. The angel is worrying about him, Dean can almost feel it. Cas has been gentle over the past week, asking simple questions and avoiding Sam completely.

He’s remained quiet as Dean’s flashbacks have increased, talked him down from multiple panic attacks, and coerced him into eating and sleeping. The nausea and nightmares alone make him want to give up, but Castiel has remained a rock.

He’s becoming the closest thing Dean has to a best friend.

Dean’s been flying aimlessly for the past week, updating their course as the mood takes him, sometimes manually flying. He has no real plan except to stay away from Sam. He has around fifty messages from him, unread in his inbox. He can’t face more incrimination. Look back on how badly he managed to fuck up.

He’s deleting a few of them when he notices an incoming request from Charlie. He answers immediately, missing his friend after so long without seeing her.

[This is Charlie, the one who taught me to hack.] He types to Cas.

_I would love to meet more of the people you hold dear, Dean._

Dean winces slightly at his reply. Sam wasn't exactly the best introduction for Castiel. Hopefully Charlie would be a better example.

“Hey Dean!” she beams. “I heard you were kicking around in that tin can of yours! Where've you been the past four months?”

Her real time hologram dances in the middle of the display, and despite everything that’s going on, Sam, Cas, the daily reminders of Alastair, Dean can’t help but smile back at the sight of his friend.

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He grimaces awkwardly, eyes flickering down as he blushes.

“Oh, Dean.”

He can hear the sympathy in her voice. It doesn't happen regularly, but when things get too much, Dean shuts down vocally. Charlie’s been there through some of the worst times: when Dad died; when Sam went missing; when Sam left for college; the ten year anniversary of his mom’s death. She’s used to it, and has never judged him.

“You lost your voice again?” she asks.

He nods, curling in on himself slightly.

“What happened?”

There’s a chill in the IMPALA. His skin erupts into goose bumps, hair on end. A shudder runs through him, but for once, he’s not pulled into a memory.

[I got involved with Revelation Industries to pay for Sam’s college tuition.] he types. [It was bad. I got out. I freaked out and hurt Sam. He doesn't want me around.] He keeps it brief and to-the-point. It’s all he can manage for now.

“Let me guess. He doesn't know any of this. He thinks you were off planet-hopping, correct?”

He nods miserably. Sam knows so little about what Dean had to do when they were kids. The homework he completed in the small hours of the morning, the days he went without food, the times he locked Sam in their room to keep him safe from a man with too much alcohol in his blood to realize that the thing he was lashing out at was his own child. Dean had dropped out of school to raise Sam. Not that Sam knew any of this.

“And he wasn't happy to see you, I take it? Still in his independent man-child years?” she jokes.

He gives her a wry smile and types back. [I guess.]

“He’ll come round Dean, he just needs to grow up a little,” Charlie reassures him. It’s almost a practiced conversation by now. Dean's long since given up hope.

“And have you talked to anyone yet? I know you. You said it was bad. That’s basically declaring that you were tortured within an inch of your life!”

He goes rigid in his seat. Breath coming in shallow gasps. He’s going to be sick.

_She’s right, of course. But it’s not your fault, Dean. You’re okay._

Charlie has taken up a look of abject horror. “Fuck, Winchester. Tell me you weren't.”

He can’t meet her eyes. Tears well in his own and he wipes at his eyes angrily with the back of his hand. He can’t break down in front of Charlie like this. He just can’t.

“I’m so sorry, Dean. There are rumors about that company. But… I never believed them. But, you do know it’s not your fault right?” her tone is gentle but firm.

_See. It’s not just your alien hitch-hiker that thinks that._

[I sold myself to them, Charlie. Whose fault is it? Mine.]

“Did you agree to anything they did?”

He shakes his head. His contract had been specific. The medical tests they wanted to run were detailed, but painless.

[Sometimes I said yes. Just to make the pain stop.] He has to show her how weak he was. Convince her to stay away.

“Then it’s not your fault. It’s _theirs_. Dean, whatever you’re blaming yourself for, it’s not your fault, okay?” There’s a slight pause in their conversation while what she said sinks in.

“Have you talked to Benny?”

Dean could almost kiss Charlie right now. How could he have forgotten Benny? The AI was intelligent and impartial. He always listened and had been Dean’s unofficial therapist for years.

“Judging by your reaction, you forgot all about him.” Charlie rolls her eyes. “What have you been doing in the spaceship of yours, Winchester? Talking to yourself?”

There’s a gruff chuckle in his head from Cas. It warms Dean to the core.

[Hey, Cas. Could I tell Charlie about you? She might have some idea of how to fix this?]

_I don’t think that this is broken. But go ahead. From what you've told me she might be able to help us._

“Who’s Cas? Girlfriend? Boyfriend?”

He’s accidentally sent the message to Charlie. No going back now. He tells her a condensed version of his escape, glossing over Azazel, and sending his medical files over to her.

“Shit, Dean,” she says as he finishes. “If I had'’t seen the results myself, I’d think you were crazy!”

He shrugs at her.

_Such nonchalance from someone who spent most of our first conversation convinced of his own insanity._

“Shut up, Cas.” The words escape before he can stop them.

“He speaks!” is Charlie’s chipper response. It may be slightly insensitive, but he prefers it to Sam’s tiptoeing.

“I've been thinking,” he begins, because he hasn't truly thought about how to get Cas out of his head and into a body of his own. He’s been busy trying to piece himself back together. “You said you need a psychic link to survive?”

_Yes Dean?_

He can hear the question in Cas’ tone of voice. The sliver of confusion that marks a lot of their conversations.

“So, in theory, you could hop back into that body Alastair had, but keep the connection with me? And that’d be okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, but what if the link doesn't work if you’re not in the same body?” Charlie butts in. “I’m not having you die on me, Winchester.”

_I’m not sure. Our bond will work over narrow distances, but unless we remained joined physically, I’m not sure how it could possibly work. In addition to this problem, I thought you wanted rid of me? How is this any better?_

“I've spent too long training you up as my apprentice to lose you in the final stages,” Charlie continues.

They all ignore Dean’s flinch at the word apprentice.

“Hang on guys! You’re both talking without giving me time to answer,” he manages to get out as both Charlie and Cas pause.

“Charlie, Cas answered that. It works over small distances, but we’d need to remain in physical contact with each other, which isn't any better. And Cas, just having your own meat-suit is a huge improvement. At least I could piss without having you stare at my junk. I can work with that,” he answers each of them calmly.

_I do not stare at your penis. It is not of interest. However your plan still does not resolve the issue of distance. Or how we would acquire such a body._

He knows. It’s a pipe dream, but maybe there’s some way around the problem.

“Oh. Believe me, I have a plan for how to get a body.” Dean grins viciously at Charlie. “How about a little blackmail, Bradbury? I’m sure you can dig up a whole load of dirt on Alastair and his company.” He swallows the bile that rises at the mention of Alastair’s name.

_Dean, I cannot ask you to do that._

“Dean, it would be my absolute pleasure.” Charlie replies, eyes glinting with barely suppressed malice.

“Excellent. Cas, you don’t have to ask. I want to,” he says, voice softening as he talks to his alien invader.

He shouldn't be this attached. It’s too soon, probably dangerous, but it’s necessary if they’re going to be spending an eternity in each other’s heads. It’s always been his curse. Exceptional empathy mixed with a transient lifestyle means he’s learnt to form strong connections rapidly. It ached when they moved on, and after a while he stopped actively trying, but he’s lost none of his skill.

“Look, Dean. If we’re going to do this, we’ll need a drop site. And a home base while we get this ball rolling. I’m sending you coordinates, meet me there,” Charlie says, moving out of frame as she inputs the coordinates into her own ship computer.

He’s kind of impressed that she can’t hack the IMPALA and find exactly where they are, but her choice of planet is far enough away from where they’re sitting that she can’t have known.

“It’ll take me a while to get there. A week, ten days, maybe more,” he says.

“That’s fine. I’ll be in an old lab. One of my early purchases. You know the one, the Batcave? Should have everything we need for your weird tinkering. Bradbury out.”

The connection dies before he can respond. He’d met Charlie when he was thirteen. He was a quiet kid back then, a world of responsibility on his shoulders. She’d sought him out and befriended him.

Charlie was a planet-hopper too. Whereas he had his Dad and Sammy, but no money so to speak of, Charlie had a lot of money in a trust fund, gifted to her when her entire family died as a result of a fast-acting biological agent that only she escaped from. Turns out not being able to get your space-suit helmet off was a blessing.

She’d been running from the UAP and they’d found kindred spirits in each other. Charlie was one of the few people he’d stayed in touch with. It had taken years for her to get him to open up about his projects. Dean was an incorrigible tinkerer. He’d spend weeks at a time working out new systems and hardware updates for the IMPALA, planning out clever toys to keep Sam occupied and building models in their room. He’d read any book about mechanics he could get his hands on, same with medical books, chemistry, physics. He wanted to know how everything worked, and spent hours taking electronics apart and back together again, often with improvements of his own design.

It had driven Sir mad, and Dean had learnt to hide his love of learning, of building and improving things. A secret compartment built into his and Sam’s room was used as a storage spot. Only Charlie had really known.

He’d just left Charlie when he received a heavily encrypted set of coordinates from her. The labs. It became a haven for him after John died. A stop point for the tempestuous months that followed.

None of this stopped Charlie from teasing him about his building projects. Particularly memorable was the time he’d accidentally programmed her PDA to ask increasingly lewd questions by mistake.

He punches in the location, a smile on his face as the IMPALA orients herself towards safety.

_Dean. Even if we do get a functioning body, we will not be able to maintain the connection and then we will both end up dead._

“Such optimism, Cas. We’ll figure it out.”

_You cannot be serious. You’re still recovering. You are in no position to be experimenting with your brain._

Dean flinches at Cas’ harsh tone. Castiel, as careful as he’s been, can, on occasion, be completely tactless.

Stilling his trembling hands by gripping the armrests, he snaps back, “Fuck you, Cas. I’m doing fine.”

_Forgive me if I do not take your word at face value after a week of non-verbal communication._

“That’s how I deal with my shit Cas. I shut up, I think about it and I talk when I’m fucking ready.”

He’s angry. He feels it bubble up from his stomach, sitting hot and boiling in his rib-cage. It’s better than the paralyzing fear and panic that he’s used to. He’s been helpless for so long and he’ll be damned if Cas can stop him securing his freedom.

_I know that Dean. And I’m not pushing for you to do so. I simply question if you’re in the right mind-set to build such complex equipment and toy with the inner workings of your mind. It could break you._

It was concern, rather than annoyance at his lack of progress that spawned Castiel's words then. Dean tries to grip onto his anger, keep its insulating warmth that’s a welcome respite from the cold apathy or crippling hurt he’s been oscillating between, but he can’t. It’s not how his anger works; it flares rapidly, hot and fiery before burning itself out. He’ll leave Sam for the slow burn rage, the cold anger that sizzles quiet and never-ending.

“I’m already broken, Cas. Does it really matter?” he says quietly. It’s the truth. He’s buried things. Repressed memories and emotions and hurt from way before Alastair, despite using Benny as a confidant. He’d been too scared that Sir or Sam would find out and realize he wasn't worthy of the small amount of love they could spare for him. The love he stored away and coveted, keeping it close to him as if it could be taken from him.

Alastair ripped them from him. Tearing down his walls one by one and twisting every hidden facet of him into something dark and hideous. He’d used every hurtful word Sir had thrown at him, every punch and beating. He’d used Sam’s innocence, Dean’s jealousy over how it was kept intact, his resentment that Sam would never know how much Dean lost for his little brother. He’d used the deep hurt of the loss of his mother that he’d been clinging to for so long. Tore it out of him, and with it, a piece of Dean’s soul.

He’s nothing. If only Castiel would see that.

_Dean, my friend. How can you think that of yourself?_

Castiel’s voice was soft, tinged with what Dean would have called sorrow.

“Do you really need me to answer that Cas? You've seen some of the things I've done. I’m nothing but a monster pretending to be human. I am coated in a layer of filth that I will never be able to wash off. I hurt everyone I touch. I was broken long before Alastair put his hands on me and I’ll be damned if I don’t do everything I can to stop dragging you down with me.”

Dean stops yelling when he feels the tell-tale trickle of tears running down his cheeks. His throat aches with the effort of trying to hold them back but he has to get Cas to understand how worthless and dangerous he is. How he rips the people he loves the most apart simply by being near them. How he sucks the life out of everyone he gets near with his pathetic need to be loved. He won’t let Cas get stuck in his orbit.

They may need the psychic link up and running, but the sooner Castiel has his own body, the sooner he gets away from Dean’s poisonous influence. He shouldn't have tried teaching Cas, or even talked to him, he’s probably wrecked him permanently.

“God, Cas. Can’t you just see I’m not good enough? At least let me do this,” he chokes out.

 _You do not and will not ever need my permission to do_ anything, _unless it endangers us both. At this moment, my main concern is_ you. _You may not ever be ready to hear this, Dean, but you are_ not _the man you think yourself to be. You’re right. I have seen the things you have done, and the things that have been done to you. True, some of your memories remain untouched by me, and I am not going to change that, but I am yet to find fault. You forget that I do not have the petty constraints of your human morality, nor the inclination to lie to you._

 _Dean, your heart is filled with love that you grant freely to those who give you the barest hint of regard, whether or not they deserve such a gift. When it is not returned in kind, you see it as an inherent fault within yourself, rather than with them. Despite your loathing of societal conformation, you judge yourself by their standards rather than your own. You’re not_ broken _, Dean. Damaged, and in need of a reprieve, yes. But not broken._

 _What Alastair did to you… That’s on him. He’s not a reflection of you. He didn't win. You’re scarred and hurt in so many ways, but you are still so noble and so whole. If you were truly the beast you think yourself to be, you’d be keeping me close to hurt and destroy me instead of pushing me away. That alone is proof of your inherent goodness. You might not be ready to hear that. You might never believe it. But I will stay with you and attempt to change this. You are_ righteous _Dean, even if you do not see it._

Dean had done more damage than he thought if Castiel had that high of an opinion of him. But he knows he would not leave Cas unless he asked. He would stay with him and guide him because he craved that kind of devotion. He did not deserve it. He simply didn't deserve what Castiel was offering. But he would accept it. God help him, he wanted it.

The sincerity which dripped from every word of Castiel's little speech make him want to prove himself the man Cas sees. To be worthy of such devotion. (Unless he already is, and Dean’s got it wrong, but that can’t be true. Cas is not human. And doesn't understand enough about humanity to know what Dean truly is.) Those are treacherous thoughts. Ones he long ago consigned to the darkest, deepest recesses of him mind with his hopes and dreams.

“Thanks Cas,” he chokes out. “I don’t know what you see in me, Cas, but I’ll try to be to be this righteous man you seem to think I am. I can’t let you down like I've let down every other god-forsaken person in my life.” It’s at moments like this that Dean is very glad that Cas can’t (or doesn't) read his thoughts.

_Just be yourself. That is all I ask._

Dean can feel a tried smile gracing his lips, Castiel is like nothing else he’s ever come across. He’s known him barely fourteen days, and in that time Cas has seen him at some of the lowest points in his life, yet still has faith. It’s something he can hold close as a buffer to the inevitable hurt that will come when Cas leaves. He gets attached too fast. All it took was a few words of comfort and affection for him to consider Castiel amongst his friends. An alien who lives in his head! If the situation wasn't so dire, so fraught with danger, he would laugh at the absurdity.

He needs… he needs an outside perspective. Which makes it a good thing that they’re going to visit Charlie, possibly for a while. He is usually good making quick connections with people, on fitting in seamlessly with their lives and society before leaving. He uses identities as a shield, wrapping himself in layer upon layer of bravado, jokes and idiocy to protect himself. He chooses very few people to trust, to let them see him. Sam had once counted among them, until he came to see his brother as a liability. At the moment, he only speaks to Cas, Charlie and Benny with complete honesty.

He needs to speak with Benny too. The AI unit has undoubtedly been watching all communications with Charlie, and Dean had long ago given him access to the computer main-frame, so he’ll see the anomalies in Dean’s brain-scans. But, later. For now, Dean needs more sleep. Sleep is meant to be healing according to the medical textbooks he reads when he has the time.

He makes his way to his room, just off the cockpit. The corridors on the IMPALA may be narrow, squeezed between giant engines and life-support systems, but the two bedrooms are of a decent size. They had to be with three grown men sharing them. His room is safety and home now. He carved out a space for himself when his dad died and Sam moved into that room. The sealed cupboards are filled with battered paper-backs, scavenged from whatever planet they stayed on in the couple of years following John’s death. There are a few filled with clothes, mostly colonizer gear, but more comfortable than the things he picked up from Alastair’s ship. There’s one filled with tools needed for a planet-hopping mechanical engineer with no qualifications.

It’s a comfort to have his bed. Though it doesn't stop the inevitable night terrors and resulting panic attacks, it means that when he does sleep, it’s as restful as possible.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Terminology:  
> Sims: Simulators

The Angel in the myths is unlike the species of angel we have encountered in the past century. The Angel of legend bares resemblance to the angels of Judeo-Christian mythology found in the works of fiction the Bible and the Torah, whereas our modern-day angels remain as sponge-like colonies, communicating telepathically with humans. Any relation the Angel has to these xenophorms would lend weight to the idea that angels can possess or inhabit a willing human body, a fact that they strongly deny.

-The Angel and the Righteous Man, Origins and History of a Legend  
By Carver Edlund

They’re a few days out from Charlie when Dean plucks up the courage to talk to Benny. For an AI Dean designed and programmed himself, a bored ten-year-old with too much time alone, Benny takes none of his bullshit and is overwhelmingly protective of him. Growing up, he was glad the worst the AI could do was play with the water temperature of the shower, so that his dad would be drenched with cold water in retaliation for hurting Dean.

He boots up the computer, allowing Benny access to the display. Cas had been pre-warned that he’s most probably going to be subject to a grilling.

“Hey, brother,” Benny’s smiling image hits the display, “It’s been a while, cher.”

“Hey, Benny.” Dean attempts his usual smile, but knows it doesn't reach his eyes when Benny’s happiness turns to concern.

“What’s happened? I thought you had Sam all good and sorted? Is it linked to that weird old brain scan of yours?” the questions come, rapid fire.

“I…” Dean searches for the words. He’s had enough time now to sort things through so that his thoughts are coherent enough for him to start talking about them. “Alastair turned out to be a bust. He lied about what he wanted. It was,” he pauses, breathing through the nausea and flashes of torment that flicker behind his closed eyes. “It was hell Benny. I thought. I thought that I could handle anything after… You know my childhood. This was so much worse.”

“That’s why you've got all those new scars. Dean, I’m sorry this happened. It’s not your fault,” Benny says. “I know your mind, Dean, you’ll be working everything out to put you in the wrong so you don’t have to deal with the fact that you’re a victim. Again.”

_He and I are on the same page about that._

That snaps Dean back into the reality of the situation.

“There’s more, though. The brain scan. That’s a little hitch-hiker I picked up as I was playing pin-cushion for Alastair. His name’s Castiel.” Dean likes to think he kept his voice even through his explanation, but he knows his voice is starting to shake with the realization of everything he went through.

Benny’s face goes tight with a series of emotions Dean can’t quite follow before he speaks again. “And this Castiel is listening to all of this?”

“Uh. Yes?” Dean answers, confused.

“In which case, hello, Castiel. My name is Benny, and if you hurt a hair on this young man’s pretty head, emotionally, physically, whatever, I will find you. And I will make you wish you never laid eyes on him.” Benny’s tone drops into outright threatening and, not for the first time, Dean is glad that only he can access the AI. He shudders to think what Benny might have said to his dad, or even Sam, on occasion.

_I question how he will be able to achieve this feat when he has no physical presence._

Dean’s eyes widen marginally. It’s the harshest he’s ever heard from Cas, apart from when he threatened to take control of Dean’s body without permission. He doesn't tell Cas of his plans to build a hominoid robot for Benny to use, eventually, when the laws on AIs are relaxed.

“He hears you, Benny,” he tries, attempting diplomacy.

“Good,” Benny growls out. “Now tell my why you’re racing off to Charlie instead of your brother.”

That’s. That’s not good. The memory of him pinning Sam to the wall, exacting physical violence on a human being who didn't do anything, aches. It’s like there’s a hole in his chest, knowing his brother wants nothing to do with him.

“I did see him,” he attempts, evading lightly.

“I see, cher. And why isn't he with you?” Benny asks carefully.

Dean knows that if he stops, stalls once more, Benny won’t push. But it’s Benny, and the guy has been his one source of support for so long that it’s easier to tell him than not.

“I pushed him into a wall. Nearly broke his arm. Didn't think he’d want me around after that,” he begins.

_Of course. Breaking into his home only to hear how he wishes you gone from his life before being thrown into a PTSD flashback in which you lashed out in panic had absolutely nothing to do with it._

“Shut up, Cas,” he snaps, momentarily forgetting he’s not alone.

Benny raises an eyebrow. “He bothering you Dean?”

“No. Cas is just trying to tell me that hurting Sam wasn't my fault. Which it was,” Dean snaps before Cas can interrupt him.

“And why exactly does Castiel think that, Dean?” Benny asks.

Dean knows he’s caught. Anything less than the truth is going to leave him with two grumpy, protective assholes.

“I may have overheard him talking about me. It wasn't particularly nice. You know the sort of things the home-worlds say about no-brain colonizers. So I was just going to leave, didn't want to screw up his life and he kinda grabbed me, and I thought he was Alastair. But I still hurt him!” His words trip over themselves as he tries to explain to Benny the depth of his transgressions.

“So basically, you hear him talkin’ down about you. Again. You try and leave, he tries to stop you, and you relive one of your more traumatic experiences, ending in Sam getting a bruise. At worst. Is that what you’re tellin’ me, cher?” Benny summarizes.

Put like that it seems a lot less terrible. The UAP don’t even charge people who commit an act of violence as a result of untreated mental health problems. They’d rather help them.

“Oh,” he says, voice small.

“I’d say. So you know the drill now. When you need to talk, you talk. It doesn't have to be me. You talk at your own pace to someone you trust. Then we go back to working on your little issue of you putting your own needs so far behind everyone else’s that you forget you have them. Okay?”

“Okay.”

It’s all he can agree to for now. Benny isn't going to pressure him into talking, neither will Cas. He’s emotionally drained enough just from the mention of Alastair and the clusterfuck that was him going to Sam.

Benny seems to sense that and with a quick goodbye, as well as a promise to keep him updated, vanishes from the display.

“So?” he says, a little defensively, to Castiel.

_I am not sure that we will ever be friends, but he is there for you as I am, and was long before I was even in the picture. He’s someone you trust, so I suppose I can accept it._

Cas is almost petulant. Dean laughs a little. They’re like children battling over who gets to be his best friend. It’s been a while since he was valued by enough people for that to happen.

The thought is sobering enough. He frowns and pulls up the schematics for some of the equipment he’s designing for enhancing the basic water systems of colonizer planets.

_I've been thinking a little on the subject of enhancing our bond. I believe I have a solution, if you can develop the appropriate technological device._

“Well color me impressed, Cas! What've you got for me?” he asks, pleased.

_Is there any way you can amplify brain signals? There would still be a limit on the distance we could be apart, but it would allow some degree of physical separation._

Dean thinks for a moment, and then winces.

_What is it? Is my idea unfeasible?_

“Nah, Cas, that’s not the problem. We have the technology, it’s just highly illegal. The problem would be concealing the brain-implant from scans and such. And we’d both need one,” he explains.

He fights the sensation of something crawling under his skin. It’s too close to how he got involved with Alastair in the first place. Sam, desperate for college funds was willing to sign up to clinical trials with Azazel. To have a chip, rather like the one Dean’s planning, installed in his head. Instead of merely amplifying brainwaves, Azazel wanted to improve on the human condition. Recipients would be faster, stronger, and more intelligent than they were.

Dean was lucky to get Sam out before the trial went ahead. Many of the participants went mad, killed themselves or each other. It’s part of the reason any technology to manipulate brainwaves is banned now. Azazel was discredited, but must have found employment with Alastair, as Dean knew only too well.

_I see. Do you know how to make one of these implants? And how to insert it?_

“Make? Yeah. It’s not complicated. Charlie has some micro-circuitry synthesizers in the lab. As for putting them in, we can read up on it,” he sounds a lot more confident than he feels. Hopefully Cas won’t pick up on that. He’s already planned the implant in his head.

_Then I see no reason to hold back. I am amenable to this plan._

Dean fights a grin as Cas finally gives his consent. They’re actively doing something. They’re going to fight. If the thought of maybe having to see Alastair again wasn't so distressing, Dean would almost say he’s happy.

***  
The planet Charlie has her lab on, which they've called the Batcave for an age, (something to do with orphans and a vigilante from 20th Century literature, Dean doesn't ask) is an unnamed, uncharted planet. The UAP decided that it was essentially worthless. It has no strategic value, poor soil quality, worse air quality and a lack of mineral resources, which all added up to a big fat zero in the eyes of the UAP. In the end, the planet was mostly abandoned. A few colonizer outposts, a research and monitoring base and the lab they’re heading for. There can’t be more than a hundred people, total, living on a medium sized world. Dean’s going to have to land manually, as the planet is rated too low in importance to be entered into the UAP database to allow for automated landing.

He’d actually managed to sleep through the night. Not comfortably, still plagued with dreams of unending torment, but he didn't wake up screaming for a brother who doesn't want him around. Sam still hasn't contacted him.

He shakes the thoughts out of his head as he prepares the IMPALA. He checks everything is functional, explaining why to Cas as he goes along. If they’re going to be around each other for a while, this is basic training, required knowledge. Baby is too important to hurt just because Cas doesn't know how to treat her right.

_I do not understand your attachment to this inanimate object, but I assure you if I am ever allowed to touch your ship, I will treat it with the utmost respect._

Dean sighs, “Her, Cas. Her. Baby is not an it.”

He’s starting to enjoy winding up the angel. Cas has a sense of openness and sincerity to everything he does, though Dean is suspecting he’s not always completely honest. Cas occasionally skirts around subjects relating to angels and their myths, changing the subject before Dean can dig deeper.

It would bother him, but Cas has an earnestness that allows Dean to trust him, at least for the moment. He wants to know what causes Cas to become so quiet when he asks about certain topics, especially about how the angels came to be under Alastair. The need to know burns with each passing day, but Cas has been nothing but patient with getting Dean to talk, so he should return the favor.

He lands the IMPALA with an ease born of growing up flying her. He _feels_ the moment her engines switch from space-time manipulation into direct gravity, rather than relying on the monitors, and adjusts how he flies her accordingly. It’s automatic as he lands her, his focus on the comfort of flying and the hum of her engines. It’s a textbook landing on all accounts, despite the tingle of fear just before they hit the ground.

There’s only a short walk to the lab, though he airlocks the IMPALA and wears a purifier over his mouth and nose as a precaution. The air is breathable, but Cas would probably object to the slightly toxic nature of some of the other gases present.

The world is dusty and barren. There are no clouds, and once again Dean thanks the heavens that his father never started using non-worlds as bases. It would have been intolerable.

He barely has time to hermetically seal the lab and get through the decontamination process before he’s assaulted by a mass of red hair. He flinches back as Charlie barrels into him and she draws back immediately, switching to a gentle fist-bump without acknowledging his initial reaction.

“It’s good to see you, Winchester,” she starts, grabbing his toolbox from him and moving deeper into the lab. “I've got so much dirt on Alastair we could lock him up for years.”

_That is most fortunate._

“That’s great, Charlie. You deleted everything to do with the hack?” he asks.

“Please, Dean. As if I’d mess up with something like that. He’ll have no idea someone even got access to his little files, let alone who did it.”

She turns to face him, placing his toolbox on a work-bench, “He’s one sick son-of-a-bitch, and that’s coming from someone who lived under Dick Roman’s rule for years. He kept records of everything, to our advantage. Half of the stuff he’s doing has been outlawed for centuries.”

Dean already knows this, has felt the full extent of Alastair's depravity. There’s a chill in the Batcave, and he shivers suddenly, drawing Charlie’s gaze.

“Hey. You okay? We don’t have to talk about it if it’s making you uncomfortable,” she says gently.

“Nah. It’s fine. You probably saw the worst of it, anyway.”

Charlie levels her gaze at him, “Yeah, I did. It’s going to give me nightmares for years, and _I_ didn't experience any of it first-hand.”

Heavy guilt settles in Dean’s stomach at what she says. He should never have brought her into this.

“Oh, don’t blame yourself, Dean. I’m the one who kept watching the holovids after the first one. I’d want in on this even if you weren’' involved.” Her eyes blaze with anger at the memory of Alastair's recordings.

He meets her eyes, and nods. She knows. She knows everything that happens to Alastair's unfortunate test-subjects and she still wants to touch him. Still wants to be around him when he’s dirty and broken and used. She hasn't abandoned him and is actually trying to help. He doesn't deserve the help of _one_ person, let alone three. That makes Charlie and Cas and Benny who haven’t discarded him. It’s more than he can ever hope for.

“Thanks, Bradbury,” he gets out, voice choked with emotion.

“You’re welcome. Now, come over here and I’ll show you exactly how we’re going to blackmail Revelation Industries,” Charlie says, moving on quickly from more emotional topics of conversation.

She guides him over to a large display, bringing up data of purchases and communication logs. He spots it before she has a chance of pointing it out.

“Oh my god,” he gasps.

“I know.”

_I appear to be missing something?_

“Oh. Um. Let’s see,” Dean starts. “This equipment,” he gestures to the top right of the display, “was meant to be destroyed over fifty years ago. That and the communications logs here, with the weird coordinates and timestamps mean that Alastair's built himself a pocket universe. He’d be in such deep shit if it came out,” he says gleefully.

“I assume you were talking to Cas, but yes. Which makes me ask how the hell you got out, Dean?” Charlie questions.

Dean pauses. He doesn't want to have to go back through the escape. It’s filled with panic and running and clawing for his very survival.

The amulet.

A silver pendant snatched from Azazel’s neck. A burning as a wormhole opens up in front of him.

“Of course,” he breathes out.

Dean fumbles quickly under his clothes and pulls out Azazel’s pendant. “I’m not sure, but I think it’s to do with this. It’s some sort of key?”

“Hell, Dean. I don’t want to even touch that thing, let alone open it up and see how it works. I’ll leave that to the machine-heads,” she says fondly.

“Right. So now what? I build the chips we need, for me and Cas. You set up the drop-point for the body. Specify the one that Cas was in before, we know that one will hold him.”

“That’s good for me, Dean. How long do you think it’s going to take?” she asks.

_Don’t forget you need to learn how to put them in too._

Dean calculates it in his head. Maybe a week to build he chips, he already has a basic blueprint in his head, two, possibly three to read up on the medical procedure and get enough practice in the sims to be confident.

“Three weeks, maybe a month. I need a week here. Everything else we can do while travelling,” he decides.

“Right you are. I’ll set it up for twenty-five standard days. Maybe use a moon about two weeks travel from here as the drop-site. I got your back,” Charlie says, grinning over at Dean.

_If that’s all sorted then we should begin as soon as possible. You need as much practice as you can get._


	7. Chapter 7

All sources agree that the Angel and the Righteous Man, should they ever have existed, possessed a genius level intellect. Both demonstrated a high degree of medical training, though the Righteous Man is said to have had great mechanical aptitude as well. The men who formed the basis of the myth, assuming they were once historical figures, seem to have gained their following and the recognition of their talents by providing such care freely and without discrimination: a rarity in the 26th Century. Thus they gained standing through the application of their skills and knowledge, rather than by their attaining of it.

-The Angel and the Righteous Man, Origins and History of a Legend  
By Carver Edlund

The days pass in a blur of frenzied activity. Dean easily converts the plans in his mind into computer blueprints, and the manufacturer spits out his designs in neatly packaged microchips.

He tests each one carefully, altering the shielding to make them invisible to medical scans, tweaking the software on each so they integrate into his and Cas’ brainwave patterns seamlessly. When Cas is in his new body, he’ll probably have to do a little more, so he leaves himself a backdoor. It’ll be easy enough to seal on his way out.

There’s no actual guarantee that they will work, of course. The real test will be when they use them for the first time. It’s not an ideal situation, but it’s the best they've got. At least Cas can just jump back into Dean if it all goes to hell in a hand basket.

He’s been busy enough that the only time Alastair crosses his mind is in his dreams. They’re as powerful as ever, a mass of twisting and burning torment that never ends. On good nights, he doesn't wake up. On bad nights, he wakes screaming in panic and terror, with Cas desperately trying to calm him down.

After the first night that happened, Charlie had taken to sleeping in her ship, unable to face Dean begging for help the second night in a row, not with her knowing exactly what he was begging to stop. He’d sleep in the IMPALA, but staying in the labs allows him to work at weird hours. It’s easier to work on programming the microchips than facing the nightmares again.

He sleeps when he’s too tired to continue, something that Cas has picked up on. He never says anything directly, but makes polite suggestions about rest, concentration, and the time in an effort to get Dean to sleep for more than four hours a day.

Dean thinks he has the microchips finished. He has a few spares, just in case. But thinks they’re ready enough to begin working out how to get the damn things into their heads.

He’s reading through a bit of medical literature, in bed, trying to work you if it’s best to actually open their heads up, or to go for the key-hole surgery route.

_Dean, where are the microchips meant to be placed?_

That’s actually a good question. He’s so caught up on how to do brain surgery that he’s forgotten to work from the basics. He’s torn between the cerebral cortex, the frontal lobe, to be precise, and the brain-stem.

“I’ve got two possible locations where they would work okay. I don’t want to have to put them too deep,” he tells Cas.

_I’d say the brain stem would work best. We could implant the chip using a needle, it wouldn't be too complex._

“I’d agree, but it’s also dangerous to mess around with that part of the brain. It does a lot of the important stuff, breathing, heartbeat. That kind of thing. I’d rather not poke it.”

_I see. We are balancing the simplicity of the procedure with the risk involved._

“Yup. Not to mention the fact that I’d have to do myself.”

_It will not be a problem if you harm yourself. I can easily correct any mistakes you make._

That’s a huge relief. He’d almost forgotten about Cas’ healing abilities. It cements the plan to the brain stem. It’s far easier to learn correct placement than an entire surgery.

“Awesome. In that case we go with your plan.”

_Try not to actively injure yourself. There are some things I cannot fix._

He’s not planning to. Practice is a necessity.

They have a few days before they need to head out to the drop site. Alastair had been in contact himself. Charlie hadn't let him see the message, so Dean assumes it was not pleasant. He’s almost glad that Charlie’s trying to protect him in this way, but since she said Alastair was coming himself, he’s not sure her trying to shield him would be any use.

The idea of seeing Alastair again has pushed him into a panic attack at least once, and his night terrors had only increased in frequency and intensity from the moment Charlie told him. He may not be ready. But it’s the best plan he’s got. He’s not sure how much longer he can take carrying Cas around in his head.

He was fine initially, but seeing Charlie regularly makes him miss the privacy he once had. True, they’d still be bonded on some level after the transfer, but he’d at least be able to physically separate himself if need be.

They’re quiet for a moment, Dean lost in this thoughts and Castiel doing whatever he does when he goes silent.

_I believe there’s something I need to tell you._

Cas is nervous, his voice fraught with tension. Dean’s been waiting for a few days for Cas to come out with his big revelation.

“Go ahead, I’m not going anywhere,” Dean jokes, attempting to put the angel at ease.

_I've told you a few of our most famous myths and legends, but there are some I have neglected to mention. I was endeavoring to wait for the right moment, but circumstance has forced my hand._

That’s not ominous at all. Dean knows Cas hasn't told him everything but the reluctance and Cas stretching this out now doesn't look good for him. If Cas has something horrible he’s done then Dean is willing to overlook it, the angel did the same for him. It just might take him a little time.

_One of our stories is how we ended up in the pocket universe with Alastair. The story goes that a young researcher entered a cave system on our home world. One of us fell, and latched onto this man. Instead of working with his vessel, as tradition commands, he took the man by force. We call those that do that the Fallen. Those who go on to commit atrocities are named Demons. This angel took us all with him, in the hopes of creating an army. Most would not join him. Alastair was the name of the Fallen Angel; it’s part of the reason he hurts others. His vessel rebels, tormenting the demon. I should have told you sooner, but I couldn't think of a suitable moment._

It’s a lot to take in. Cas has already gone through how angels take vessels. They’d rather remain as the hive-mind, but sometimes, by accident, they become bonded to another being. They either gain permission to take full ownership or work as Castiel is now, a guide and a help to their vessel.

“So if you’d gone through with the threat to make me?” Dean trails off. He’s selfish enough that it’s the first thing he thinks about coherently.

_I’d have become Fallen. If you had fought me, something I do not doubt, having come to know you, then I would have ended up like Alastair. As I told you at the time, I did not mean it. I was angry and hurt and confused. You were in so much pain. And your emotions…_

“Okay, dude, I get the picture.” Dean’s not going to let the guy go on yet another rant about the ‘vibrancy of his emotions’ or whatever shit Cas said the last five times.

“So Alastair is an angel? One who went against whatever code you have and got so fucked up that he decided to take it out on other people?”

Dean needs this. Needs these answers. It might cost him more than a few nights sleep, but what’s one more nightmare?

_That is a summary of the events._

“Does he…” Dean swallows bile at the question he needs to ask. “Does he have anything on top of the immortality and that crap?”

He can’t _not_ know. He needs this information. If they’re going to be meeting face-to-face then it’s vital he knows exactly what he’s going into.

_Like you, he has the immortality my race possess, as well as the ability to heal himself. There is more though. As the controlling party, he is far stronger than a normal human, he would be faster too._

Breath leaves Dean’s body in a gush. He never thought he’d be so relieved to face a man who can physically take him apart. For him, however, it means more than that. It gives him a reason why Alastair could pin him down so easily, could counteract every struggle he made. It’s liberating.

_You seem pleased with this information. Why would you be pleased?_

Cas is confused. Obviously. Dean just took the information well.

“It’s. I know it shouldn't matter. I know that what he did was horrible and wrong and not my fault. But I only think about it logically. It’s…” He doesn't have the words. But he’ll try for Cas. “He would tell me I was weak and pathetic. That I couldn't want it to stop that badly since I wasn't fighting that hard. And he always won, y’know.”

Dean waits to get lost in memories of pain and torment, but they don’t submerge him. They’re there, the images flickering behind his eyes, but he’s not trapped.

“I started to believe him. Hell, I think I still do, at least part of me. Between him torturing me until I begged him to continue, and him telling me how much I wanted it… I guess I just ended up agreeing. But knowing he was so much stronger. It helps,” he finishes.

Dean’s hands shake a little, so he clasps them in his lap, reclining on the bed to wait for Cas’ answer.

_So this erases some of the guilt and the blame you still feel rests on you?_

“It does.”

_I wish this wasn't what it took to get you to start believing it. It would not be your responsibility no matter how strong Alastair may or may not be. But if this information helps, rather than hurts, then I am glad._

Dean feels a small grin light up his face. “Yeah, we’ll just have to record the actual meeting, get it backed up so if anything happens to us, he’ll get incriminated.”

_Then you are not angry that I did not tell you such information sooner?_

“No, Cas. Considering I barely manage to keep things together every time I hear his name, it’s okay.”

He lies back on the bed, slightly curled in on himself. The exhaustion he’s been ignoring creeps into his head, filling it with heavy silence. He closes his eyes, eyelids a weight too great to bear, and slips into unconsciousness.

***

The simulations prove to be easy. He only kills the patient about half the time when he starts and after a week, he’s got it down to around the 25% mark, and he misses anything major that Cas would struggle to deal with. This, of course, ignores the fact that he’s going to be doing the procedure on himself, which makes things about ten times more awkward. Reaching behind his head to inject a chip into his brain sounded so simple when he’d first agreed to it.

Charlie is completely out of the equation. The girl spent all of five minutes in the simulator before she was barfing up her lunch. There was a quick mumble about needles and childhood trauma before she dashed off to the toilets.

He’s killed fake him for the hundredth time when Cas comes up with a suggestion. Cas could guide the needle, having a far greater awareness of Dean’s body. It would, of course, mean giving up a little control to Cas.

The very idea chills him to the core.

Being trapped while his body is used is something he’s not ready to deal with, so they reach a compromise. Dean will knock himself out with an EM pulse they use for crowd control, and Cas will take over. In a little less than five minutes they’ll be done, and the new and improved Dean will be woken up.

His skin crawls at the thought but he has to do this. For Castiel. He mostly trusts Cas, and Charlie is on hand to sort out any difficulties they might have. It doesn't stop the terrified pounding of his heart or his shaking hands as he prepares himself, however. They have to do this now, before they start heading towards Alastair and he freaks out completely.

_If you have adequately prepared yourself, we can begin the procedure._

Cas’ voice is calm and measured. It reassures him somewhat stilling some of the jitters running through his body.

“On count of three then,” his voice shakes.

“One, two…” Charlie’s voice drifts out as he falls unconscious.

***  
He’s in the same position as he wakes. There’s no time-lapse, which throws him off for a moment, but the small sting at the back of his neck notifies him that everything went fine.

_Welcome back. Everything went perfectly._

“Well, that’s good, but I’m fucking glad I didn't remember any of it,” he says, relieved. “Why did we think it was a good plan to do this now?”

“I’m pretty sure it was you saying you wouldn't disrespect Baby like that, and that you’d rather do it sooner rather than later,” came Charlie’s chipper reply.

_I believe the question was rhetorical._

He bursts out laughing, gaining an eye-roll from Charlie. She’s still not quite over the time she came to wake him up and he was having an argument about the educational value of old 22nd Century medical videos. They’d devolved into name-calling, so Charlie had walked in on him shouting increasingly bizarre and silly insults at the air.

He’s looking forward to having Cas as a physical presence, even with the unvoiced concern he has about Cas deciding he’s not good enough. They won’t be able to separate physically, but the idea of being cut out of the life of another person he’s come to care about, that he’d be living so close, yet be cut of emotionally, is something he can’t do a second time.

“Don’t you have to pack up and do your safety routine for the IMPALA?” she asks.

Dean does. They’re heading out in a few hours and he wants to check out the outside of the IMPALA. She’s been sitting idle for a while at Sam’s and the sand and dust of this planet can't be doing her any good.

He grabs his tool-kit and breathing apparatus, before heading out, bidding Charlie a quick farewell. They’d decided he’d go alone, Charlie providing technical backup. There’s no need to put her in the line of fire. They've loaded some recording devices into the IMPALA, and will have time to set them up before Alastair arrives.

Dean’s not looking forward to it. He knows it’s going to hurt, that Alastair will try and hurt him more, break him further, but getting Cas a body of his own has consumed him. He focused on the task instead of drowning in his own head.

He almost wants to back out, to wait until he’s more stable, when he can sleep through the night without suffering through horrific visions of his time with Alastair. But he won’t. He’s set. And Cas has been so excited the past few days. It would be selfish to postpone.

The IMPALA is in good shape. There are a few minor abrasions to the bodywork, but it’s superficial to most. He’ll sort her out after their meeting.

He’s glad to get back into the safety of his baby. The comfort of familiar surroundings soothing some of the stress and worries about the upcoming weeks.

_Why is this place such a comfort to you? I have been attempting to divine the reason but without hearing your motivations it is very difficult._

And there it is. Cas breaking his thoughts before they can turn too much towards Alastair.

“It’s home. No matter where we were, how far we traveled, it’s been a constant,” he explains. Dean’s baby deserves better than evasions and half-truths from him.

_Stability in a fluid, unstable world._

“I mean, half the time we didn't even bother buying a house or anything, we just lived here,” Dean continues. “There’s a lot of happy memories tied up with her. Some bad ones too, but the IMPALA has locks on all her doors, so she’s always been a safe-haven for me and Sammy.”

_I don’t understand._

Cas’ voice is somewhere between concerned and anguished.

“What don’t you understand? Cas? What’s wrong?” Dean asks quickly. The angel is upset. He’s hurt one of the few good things left in his life and he can’t mess this up.

_You. I don’t understand you._

Him? Dean’s simple. Basic. A pretty face, but not much going on on the inside no matter what the tests said.

_You have traversed enough pain and suffering to drive most people to the brink of insanity, and yet you continue. You actively offer to improve my existence, at great risk to yourself, although I have done nothing to warrant such aid. And above that, you do this though I do not ask. Simply because you are a good man, a righteous one. I do not understand how you can still remain so selfless._

Cas had him so wrong.

“Dude. Getting you into your own body will help me a whole lot too. It’s not just me being a stand-up guy.”

_You could have forced me out into anyone. Forced me out and killed me. Instead you work to find another path. Do not pretend you did this out of selfishness._

“Well I sure as hell didn't do it out of the goodness of my heart, Cas!” Dean tells him with some force. He has to get Cas to understand that he’s not a good person and will just end up hurting and disappointing him before it’s too late.

_You agreed to let me stay even though it was the last thing you wanted to do at the time. You allowed me to explain that I wasn't just a hallucination. Not to mention the fact that you seem to trust me when I have done nothing to warrant it. Your experiences should be telling you the exact opposite. You should not be attempting to improve my life, but be taking all of the pain and anger and hurt that you have raging inside you and inflicting it on me. That is what I expect._

“So you honestly believe that just because I’m not hurting you I’m some kind of _saint_?” Dean asks. He can’t believe he’s screwed up this badly. If Cas thinks that Deans a good guy just for not harming him than he’s failed at teaching him about humanity.

_No, that is not what I intended you to take away from that. What I mean is that I am someone who should mean nothing to you. I have done nothing to earn the regard you have of me. And I am grateful. You are showing kindness to a mere stranger despite all of the suffering inflicted on you. From what you have told me of humans, this is a rare trait._

Cas is adamant that he’s right. Firm in tone. He thanks Dean for what? Actually giving a damn?

“Dude. I’m helping me as well. Hell, you didn't even think about having a body of your own before I brought it up. Do you even want it?” he asks. It’s a question he’s afraid of. He needs Cas out of his head, but he doesn't want to force Cas into doing something he doesn't want to.

_Yes. I never thought it would be possible. But I want it. More than anything._

The angel answers without hesitation and it’s like a weight has been lifted from Dean’s chest. He’s not pushing Cas into this. He wants it.

A tendril of happiness warms him, bubbling through his chest and upwards to draw his face into a smile. 

“That’s good Cas. That’s some of the best news I've heard today,” he says, grin stretching wider.

_Excellent. Now how about we… blow this joint?_

The words are quizzical, uncertain, but they still make Dean laugh. Hearing Castiel trying to use one of the few figures of speech Dean taught him is a moment to be remembered.

“Don’t ever change,” Dean tells him as he starts the pre-takeoff sequence.

Cas remains confused as Dean punches in the coordinates to where Alastair will be meeting them with another chuckle. 


	8. Chapter 8

Every legend relating to the Angel and the Righteous man has several common features. The Angel is always described as having large, black, feathered wings and piercing blue eyes. The Righteous Man is always described as scarred and tall, but gentle and compassionate. If the stories about him being one of the victims of Revelation Industries are to be believed, the scars are likely to come from this experience. However he received them, it appears to have been a traumatic experience. It is unknown whether Alastair and the Righteous Man ever had direct contact, Alastair being a figure of history, and the Righteous Man one of myth. 

-The Angel and the Righteous Man, Origins and History of a Legend  
By Carver Edlund

The moon they chose has a breathable atmosphere, but few geographical features. It was unthinkable that Alastair could plot an ambush.

The nightmares have gotten worse despite Dean beginning to talk things through with Benny and Cas. He knows it might be because of them, but he hasn't got time for that now. Dean’s reaching the point of exhaustion, which in turn, makes him paranoid and jittery, which makes the nightmares worse. It’s a vicious cycle he can’t seem to break. He’s lucky if he doesn't wake up screaming, luckier still if he doesn't wake in the middle of a panic attack and Dean’s lost count of the number of times Castiel has had to comfort him through one.

Of course, part of the problem is that Cas can’t ground him with a touch. He has to rely on words alone to calm Dean’s increasingly frantic flashbacks. It won’t be a problem soon, in a few standard hours, in fact, but Dean doesn't want Cas to be obligated to help him. It’s a weakness.

Dean’s dry-heaving into the IMPALA’s toilet with Cas desperately trying to help, but not really succeeding.

“It’s not going to be alright Cas. He’s coming. And it terrifies me,” he bursts out in the middle of Cas telling him that everything will be okay.

_You’re right. It probably won’t be alright. He’s going to use this opportunity to hurt you one last time. But you can get through it. I have faith. And at the end, you’ll have me to protect you._

“I don’t want your protection, Cas. I don’t want you shackled to my pathetic neediness. I just want this to be over,” he snaps.

_And it will be soon. Though I am not going to stop trying to care for you._

“That’s half the problem, Cas,” Dean replies, slumping against the bathroom wall. “I hate having to rely on you for help. I hate it. I hate that this is something I can’t brush off and pretend didn't happen. I hate that I let him do all those things to me. That he made me beg. That by the end I would cry and plead for him to stop and he didn't. I hate that he took every good thing I had and stained it. Ripped it from me and made it filthy. I’m so dirty. He wouldn't stop, Cas. He’d do horrible things to me if I asked, terrible, ugly things that I’ll be having nightmares about for the rest of my life. But he never stopped.”

By the time Dean finishes, his voice is barely a whisper. His cheeks are wet, and he realizes that he’s been crying. He buries his head in his hands as more tears come, his body shaking with the force of his sobs.

_I am so sorry, Dean. I am so, so sorry that this ever happened to you. You did not deserve it. But I promise that you will never be a burden to me. I care, not out of duty and obligation, but because despite our unconventional meeting, I have come to enjoy your presence. You have a beautiful soul, Dean Winchester, despite what you believe. What I wouldn't give to hold you in my arms right now…_

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean manages to choke out before Cas can get any further.

He’s about to ask why Cas has started talking like he’s walked straight out of a bad romance book when the proximity alarm sounds.

Dean’s on his feet in an instant, desperately scrubbing at his eyes as he heads out into the cockpit, opening the holovid feed to Charlie. He whirls around breath speeding up a little as he heads out of the IMPALA towards where a spacecraft is slowly touching down.

_Dean. No matter what happens, stay calm, and stay focused. I’ll help as much as I can._

It’s a bitter sort of comfort to have as he makes his way to the lowering door of Alastair's ship. He stops at the half-way mark. He’s tense, fists clenched so as to hide the fact that his hands are shaking. He thought there’d be more time, but Alastair came early, just as Dean himself did.

“Ah, Dean, how pleasant to see you again,” Alastair's voice drifts across the empty air between them. He’s wheeling a gurney in front of him, with a body on top.

“I wish I could say the same,” Dean retorts, nerves brittle at sharing the same air with the man twisted into so many of his worst fears.

“Now, now Dean. Where have your manners gone? I expected a little more… politeness from my little apprentice.” Alastair's grin is feral and dangerous, eyes glinting with barely concealed malice.

“Sorry, sir.” The response is automatic, escaping from his throat before he can stop it. A flush creeps up the back of his neck, coloring his ears as well.

_It’s fine. That’s an ingrained response. Not your fault._

Dean can barely suppress a flinch as Alastair comes to rest about five meters from where he and Cas are stood. He can see the body, the same Cas was in when they first had contact. Black wings and dark, tousled hair. The chest rises and falls on it, proof that it’s alive.

“Better. Now, Dean, _dearest_.”

Dean shudders at the endearment. His skin is crawling and his chest is too tight. The fight or flight response has kicked in, and he wants nothing more than to run away from the man standing before him. But he wants the body more.

“I have a few things to say to my brother, Castiel.”

_He’s no brother of mine._

Cas’ voice is a snarl in his head. 

Dean makes an aborted motion towards the trolley, only to stop as his eyes lock with Alastair's.

“Now, now, pet. Don’t you fret; I’ll give you what you ask for, have no fear: body designated J1MMY N0V4K. Your little friend has me caught quite neatly. I just want to say a few things before we part ways.”

Alastair's voice is smooth and sleek. It filters into Dean’s brain like oil, slow and polluting. He wants to say something, talk back, anything, but there’s panic caught in his throat and Alastair's voice is pinning him where he stands.

“I hope you know how to handle this one, brother. He’s _quite_ the screamer. With a firm hand and a little motivation, you can carve him into the perfect animal. I’d share some of my techniques, but I’m sure you already have the data of what works best on him,” Alastair smiles.

Dean feels the words like punches, each blow another crack in his defenses.

_Don’t listen to him. I am not the man he wishes me to be, and neither are you._

It’s easier said than done. Alastair's little speech cannot be filtered, not after being used to listening for his every word, terrified of missing something.

“He’s such a pretty one, isn't he,” Alastair says, stepping forwards, arm out reaching Dean’s face with greedy fingers.

Dean takes an involuntary step backwards, almost tripping over his feet in his effort to get away.

“Don’t touch me,” he says, softly, voice cracking on the ‘don’t’. 

“Oh, come now, Dean. We all know how you like a good fuck,” Alastair laughs, stepping into his space and grabbing his arm tightly, spinning him so he's positoned directly behing Dean. “Just one more time for old time’s sake,” he whispers into Dean’s ear.

There’s hot breath down the back of his neck. He can feel himself trembling.

“You’re the best _whore_ I've ever had, Dean.”

Memory bleeds into the present. Alastair holding him down, face pushed into the rack. Alastair thrusting viciously into him.

“Stop, please. Stop.” The words ripped from his mouth has he struggles.

_Dean. This isn't real. You’re not trapped back there._

Wait. Cas can’t be here. This isn't real.

Dean pulls himself back to the present, tearing out of Alastair's grip and staggering away. His breath comes in ragged gasps.

“I’m filming. Safety. Don’t trust.” His words are disjointed, but Alastair seems to understand. He steps back and pushes the gurney over to them.

Dean grasps onto it like a lifeline, only holding himself up by using it as support.

“Pity, Dean. You always begged so nicely for a big, fat cock. In your ass, in your mouth. I bet you can’t wait for Castiel to take his new vessel. I hope you give him the same treatment. Even if you are my sloppy seconds.”

_I would never._

Cas’ voice is angrier than he’s ever heard it. He wants to believe it. He’s desperate to. But Alastair was an angel once, Cas told him that himself. So what’s stopping him from continuing what Alastair started?

“Just remember, Dean. You carry my marks. You belong to me. When Castiel is finished with you, when he abandons you, and leaves your pathetic excuse for a human being in the dust, I’ll be here for you. You’re broken, Dean. Who else is going to want you? Your brother? I bet he wanted you gone the moment he laid eyes on your pitiful face. Daddy’s dead, Mommy’s dead and your little friend? The one who hacked my system without trace? They’ll grow tired of your neediness and whining shortly enough. Then who will you be left with? Me. I’ll welcome you home. I will always welcome you back into the fold.” Alastair finishes. He’s about to turn around, head back to his ship and fly away when Dean speaks.

“No. I won’t.”

“Excuse me? I seem to recall you saying that before, and you always ended up begging me for it,” Alastair snaps. The anger rolls off him in waves, but Dean knows he’s untouchable.

“That’s true. All of what you said is true. I’m worthless. I’m pathetic and needy and I hate myself. Everyone is going to leave me. Hopefully they’ll go before I poison them, but I’m not strong enough to let them leave. But you? I’ll never come back to you.

“I dreamed, you know. I dreamed sometimes when I managed to separate my mind from what you were doing to me. And I dreamed of all the things I’d do to you. Of my revenge, of repeating every sick thing you did to me, but twisting it so it was a hundred, a thousand times worse. But now? What you said? You _still_ want me.”

Dean pauses to catch his breath and smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes.

_Dean. Are you okay?_

He’s not. This fire that’s taken over him is burning out quickly, but there’s more he wants to say before he freezes up again.

“I want you to live every day, for the rest of your existence, knowing that you can’t have me. That you can never lay a finger on me again. You may have broken me. But I don’t belong to you, I’m Cas’ for as long as he’ll have me. And before that, I’m my _own_ … I win.”

He turns and walks away, pushing the gurney in front of him. He doesn't look back.

***

He needs several days of flying back to the Batcave in the IMPALA before he can even type a response to Castiel's increasingly frantic questions. He’s not talking when they land. And he doesn't speak when he injects the chip into the body. It’s perfect. No complications.

Charlie left a few days ago. There’s some sort of mystery illness breaking out on one of the colony worlds that she wants to see for herself. Something about psychiatric illness becoming airborne. Dean doesn't pay much attention. She heard what Alastair said. Despite what she promised, that it doesn't change anything, he knows it’s his fault she’s leaving.

They’re about to start the transfer when Cas speaks.

_Thank you, Dean. I’m so proud of you for doing this._

He doesn't know why. He’s stopped caring about anything other than getting this finished. There’s a numbness inside, a disconnect from the world that he knows isn't healthy, but he embraces the void to avoid the pain of continuing his existence. He wants to give up, but Cas needs him. Cas forces him to eat and sleep because it’s his survival too. Castiel doesn't care, not about him.

He says nothing as he lays a hand on Jimmy’s (that’s what they called him) forehead. There’s a pain unlike anything he’s ever experienced and he blacks out.

Dean comes awake lying on Cas’ body. His head is quiet. Castiel isn't moving.

He shakes him gently. There’s no reaction.

“Cas?” he mouths, soundlessly. He knows the angel can’t hear him.

Dean shakes him more vigorously. No reaction. He’s about to slap the guy in the hope that it wakes him up when there’s a surge of warmth in his head and Castiel opens his eyes.

They’re blue. And kinda nice to look at.

Castiel reaches up and pulls him into a hug, thick black wings wrapping around them both, which Dean tenses at, and then relaxes minutely into. Cas lets go without prompting.

“My apologies,” he says, still with the same gravelly voice he's had since the begining.

Dean shrugs in return, pushing the feeling that he doesn't mind towards Cas along the strange warmth he feels between them.

Cas’ eyes widen slightly in surprise, but the message is obviously received.

_Can you hear me?_

His voice is pushed back through the connection, and Dean nods.

“That will be useful if we ever get into any difficulty,” Cas says. He sits up suddenly, cross-legged on the gurney, and pats the space beside him.

Dean hesitates, uncertain of Castiel's intentions, before sinking down next to him, eyes staring blankly into space.

“I don’t know what to do,” Dean’s voice cracks, disuse rendering it hoarse. “I've spent my whole life doing things for other people. And now I have nothing to do but live.”

He turns to face Castiel, meeting steady blue eyes.

“I’m twenty-three, and I've never done something just because I wanted to. People have taken from me, used me, and thrown me aside when I am of no more value to them, when I need something from _them_. Isn't that sad, Cas? I’m twenty-three, and don’t get me wrong, I’m glad I've been able to make my life worth something, even for a little while, but what am I meant to do?” he pleads with Cas. Desperate to find some meaning now that he’s finished all his tasks. Laid down his burdens. His parents are dead, Sam is moving on, Cas has his own body. The only obligation he has left is to stay alive for Cas. The freedom terrifies him.

“I believe that I am not the one to answer that,” Cas replies gravely. “I, myself, have just come into possession of free will. We’re not built for it. You've been a soldier on other people’s crusades for so long, whereas I have only had dreams of an outside world. A world without strict boundaries and rules. I’m as lost as you are, Dean.”

The angel reaches between them to grasp Dean’s hand lightly. It’s warm and soft. No scars ridge the surface of Castiel's hand, unlike Dean. His body is a mass of scar tissue, most from Alastair, some from accidents, one or two from his father. His hands bear the marks of tools dropped and mistakes made trying to build and fix things. The burn mark from touching an electrified wire, a deep cut across his knuckles where he caught a falling wrench too late. Cas is untouched.

He wants to draw his hand away, to stop defiling something so pure with his filthy hands. He won’t though. He hasn't the strength, Cas’ hands are gentle and kind, soothing where others have sought only to hurt. He loses himself in the touch, the simple contact of hands pressing palm to palm and fingers laced together.

It’s in the comfort of another, freely given when sought that Dean finds a little strength for himself.

“I guess we’ll just muddle through together then. We’ll work it out,” he says, leaning in to Cas so their shoulders bump slightly, mouth quirked in a half-smile.

“Do you have a plan?” Cas asks, smiling softly back at him.

“Nah, not really. I was about ten when I realized my dreams weren't going to happen so it was best I didn't have any. I do want to help people though. I’m not sure if it’s something innate in me or something I was forced to adopt, but I still want to help where I can. If that’s okay with you?” Dean asks hesitantly.

He won’t do to Cas what was done to him. He won’t manipulate and command until Castiel is nothing more than a tool for Dean’s use. They’re a partnership now, they need to stay within a kilometer radius of each other. But it doesn't mean that they can’t both do what they want.

“Still such a good man.”

A wing brushes gently along the arm on the far side of Dean’s body, causing him to flinch away.

“Sorry, I've never had my own body. The touch, the sensations, are awe inspiring. Dean, you've shown some aptitude for medicine, and mechanics. What is it that you would like to do?” Cas asks.

“Cas, it doesn't matter if I have the knowledge or skills. I don’t have a fancy degree to back me up. It’s beyond illegal to work without the proper qualifications,” he tells the angel.

And Castiel really is an angel now. Even in white scrubs. Huge black wings hang in the air behind his back, granting him an ethereal look. He looks otherworldly. Something out of a novel.

“It would not matter to those in most need. Struggling colony worlds would welcome your presence, qualified or not,” Cas says.

It’s true. The colonies are more than happy to stay quiet, hiding things from the UAP if it allows them some independence and a better chance of success.

“Dude. There aren't many people who are going to keep quiet when they see your wings,” Dean points out.

There are a handful of people with wings spread through the UAP, Dean had found out when he looked into it. No more than around twenty. A leftover from the days of animal-human hybrid experimentation. None would be so young as Cas is.

“Who would believe them? We could be long gone before anyone comes to investigate, and we have to keep moving before people notice we don’t age,” Cas excitedly tells him.

“Oh, my immortality is still intact is it?”

“Yes, Dean. We do still share a profound bond,” he says, deadpan.

Dean took him in for a moment, trying to tell if he was serious or not.

“Yeah, sure. Look, Cas, I don’t know if you remember anything I tried to teach you, but humans need a few basic things, clothes, food and the like. Baby doesn't need much fuel, but she needs it about every ten years or so and it’s not cheap. And medical supplies, mechanical parts and replacements. We need money for that,” Dean explains.

“Well it’s a good thing Charlie diverted a large share of Revelation Industries profits into an account for you. She seemed to think it was wise.”

That floors him for a minute. He hadn't even thought of that. All the blackmail information he had on Alastair, and he uses it to get a body? Charlie is awesome.

“How much exactly?” he questions.

“She said something about you gaining one million credits in interest a year. Are these sufficient funds?”

“Yeah, Cas. More than enough.”

Most colony planets make around forty-thousand credits total, per year. He’s rich, maybe not by home-world standards, but he can do this.

“Remind me to thank Charlie sometime. And how do you even know this?” he asks, confused.

“I do not require sleep. I was aware of my surroundings,” Cas answers sheepishly.

“Dude. What are you going to do now? You are _not_ watching me sleep, that shit’s creepy.”

“Dean. I’m not going to watch you sleep. I’ll read or something. Your ship doesn't have any communal space aside from the kitchen, however, so I’ll have to do it in the cockpit,” Cas says, carefully, as if judging Dean’s reaction.

“Hell no, Cas. You can take the spare room.” Sam’s room. “Nobody’s using it anymore, so you can fill it with your junk.”

“Thank you, Dean.” Castiel is completely sincere. Once more thankful and so pleased that Dean is giving him this. Something anyone else would do. He’s acting like a decent human being and Dean is getting thanks for it?

“Whatever, man,” he says, brushing off Cas’ thanks. He untangles their hands, with a little regret, and jumps down off the gurney. “I’ll gather a few bits a pieces that are going to be useful, store ‘em in the IMPALA. You go get changed, borrow some of my clothes, and think about where you want to go first.”

“As you wish,” Cas says, heading out to the IMPALA.

Dean busied himself with his task, packing a small box of equipment that would help them, wires and scrap metal, a couple of diodes. He can build a lot from that.

He was flying out to some of the out-worlds. He’ll be helping people, but because he wants to, not out of obligation and duty. It’s satisfying. And he’ll have Castiel with him. Which is a positive. Alastair and his company were far less prolific in the colony worlds, seeing as they didn't have the money to pay for most of the pharmaceuticals he produced, so they’d be okay for the time being.

For the first time in a long time, he felt the stirrings of hope.


	9. Epilogue

Much has been written on the deeds of the Angel and the Righteous Man, but very little on the relationship between them, aside from the fact that they seemed to be able to communicate non-verbally, and were completely trusting of one another. It seems unlikely that the two could have sustained their relationship if they were simply business partners and not friends or lovers. Whatever these men were to one another, their relationship, whether platonic or not has become renowned amongst humans as a romanticized ideal to strive for.

-The Angel and the Righteous Man, Origins and History of a Legend  
By Carver Edlund

One thousand years have passed since Castiel first became acquainted with Dean. Benny is still with them, although the android leaves for decades at a time, taking the IMPALA (updated with the newest technologies) and travelling with the same wanderlust Dean and Castiel once had. It’s not the same ship, the original long lost to accident and decay, but each one Dean builds is an identical, but updated version of his beloved spaceship.

With the rise of the myth of the Angel and the Righteous Man, and it’s fanatical, although peaceful, religion, they found themselves unable to continue with their work, abandoning their slow crawl, planet to planet, providing medical care to the colony worlds who were still so often without doctor. They’d settled on a far-off world, where the nearest settlers on the planet were a thousand miles away, no big deal for a ship, but far enough that they had privacy.

They'd been through more than a few wars, fighting for no side, but caring for all. Castiel's skin was no longer the untouched, perfect layer that Dean had once compared himself to, another way to torture himself with the belief in his own worthlessness. It was ridged with calluses from working the farm, and the odd scar from doing something foolish or dangerous in their quest to help all and any.

Sometimes it’s hard for Dean: those days are becoming rarer and rarer as time passes, but the pain he suffered in his early life has never truly left him. By talking with Benny and Cas, his nightmares have tapered off to about one every few decades, and he’s rarely triggered into a traumatic flashback, especially now they live alone in a farmhouse, with no bloody surgeries and no smell of death on the air. But there are occasions where he falls into depression, where he curls up in his room with his headphones blasting music, book in hand and tries to shut the world out. There are nights where we wakes up screaming and pushes Castiel's worried touch away from him, shaking in terror at something that only he can see.

When they were still working, travelling freely, providing medical assistance, Dean would spend his time with the children on those days. Scattered and hardy kids from the colonies who’d cluster around him like moths to a flame. They’d use him as a jungle gym, happy shrieks and giggles sounding as he surreptitiously checked them over for illness or injury, med-scanner always at his fingertips.

Now that they’re settled in an old farmhouse on a long-abandoned planet, with few people for company, Dean seeks out Castiel and they spend the day curled around each other, sharing the comfort of gentle touches and soft, loving words.

There’s no one moment Castiel can pinpoint when they went from close friends to lovers. It was a slow process, spanning hundreds of years and thousands of worlds. Castiel fell in love with the way Dean would stick his tongue out when concentrating on something, how he worked unceasingly to help people simply because he could, expecting nothing in return, how his freckles multiplied and spread in summer, highlighting the man’s eyes. He fell in love with Dean, and somewhere along the way, the man fell in love with him too.

They spend lazy morning together now, wrapped up in each other’s arms and wings, exchanging slow, gentle kisses before they spend time working on the farm. They’re never far from each other. Too many years of those they have come to love dying means they hold on to each other all the more closely. Castiel sometimes finds himself staring at Dean as the man works or sleeps or reads, watching his face flicker with emotion, and draw into an easy smile when he catches Castiel.

Of all the human experiences to share with Dean, sex is not one of them. He knows that before Alastair, Dean had multiple partners, both male and female, but since then, he’s been completely celibate, never showing any inclination towards continuing and sex is something Castiel is not willing to take without Dean being completely happy with it.

They don’t have the perfect relationship, they fight sometimes, usually over silly things like Castiel traipsing mud onto Dean’s nice clean porch, or Dean forgetting to build a new bee hive for Cas’ colony, but they live in a gentle domesticity that they once thought they could never have. It’s worth it to come back home and share a meal together, to exchange words over a cup of coffee in the early morning, Dean’s sleep-mussed hair and sleepy conversation warming something deep in Castiel.

Family is a rare topic of conversation. Sam went on to do great things, becoming a renowned defense lawyer, famous for his pro bono work, and eventually becoming a top judge. It turned out that he and Ruby, the girl Dean had met the final time he saw Sam eventually got married, he and Jess never able to work out their differences. He never contacted Dean though, and the nature of interstellar travel made it all the more likely that they never received any message if Sam did send one. Privately, Cas considers it a harsh, but positive outcome for them both. After all, they both went on to lead happy, successful lives, despite the estrangement, though he understands Dean had wanted some closure. A final goodbye.

Castiel rarely thinks of the angels, his old family. He never belonged, never fitted in with the rigid social structure and hierarchy, and though his misses them sometimes, he was never close to any of his kin as Dean was to Sam. In recent years he’s heard they've started to make contact with humans again, and he’s glad, but finds himself unconcerned with their affairs. He’s been human for far longer.

Alastiar was his one sticking point. The man had been found hanging in his office shortly after the truth about his pocket universe was discovered. In Castiel's opinion it was not severe enough a punishment for his crimes, but Dean was happy he was gone, and the man he possessed put to rest, so he is satisfied.

It’s evening now, the sun is setting over their farmland, casting deep shadows across the fields. He finds Dean on the front porch, staring out into the distance with a soft smile gracing his face. Castiel approaches quietly from behind, not wanting to disturb his husband’s peace too much, before scooping the man into an embrace from behind, wings and arms surrounding his lover protectively.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean smiles into their kiss, head turned to meet Cas’ wandering lips.

“Hello, Dean,” he replies.

They fall quiet for a moment, too wrapped up in the sensation of love and comfort and family to speak.

“Are you happy Cas?” Dean asks suddenly, shifting so he’s facing Cas directly.

“I am content, yes. Why do you ask?” he says gently. After all this time, Dean still occasionally worries he’s not enough for Cas. As if he isn't everything to Castiel.

“I just…” Dean sighs, resting his forehead to Castiel's and drawing them closer together. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you, this life. I’m happy. And sometimes it gets to me, you’re shackled to a guy who won’t put out, and yet you still look at me like I’m the center of your universe.”

Dean’s eyes flicker away from Cas’ and he pulls back slightly, head turning away from the man Cas can tell he’s expecting to agree. Still expecting Castiel to confirm Alastair's prediction from so long ago, for Castiel to abandon him.

“Dean, please look at me.”

Dean’s eyes flick back to Castiel, a hesitant gesture, filled with worry which breaks Cas’ heart. Dean still carries the scars of his past, despite it being a fraction of his life as a whole, and Castiel knows he can’t fix this except to never leave until Dean starts to believe it himself.

“I love you,” he tells the man in front of him, cupping Dean’s face in his hands. Dean leans into the touch, eyes slipping shut at such a basic gesture of comfort. “Now tell me, do you wish for us to move further than where we are already? Do you wish to achieve orgasm together? Because if so I am more than willing to take you right here, right now. But only if you want it.”

Dean’s eyes have fluttered open in shock, and he’s staring back at Castiel in a mixture of confusion and astonishment.

“No, and I don't think I ever did,” Dean says. The answer is simple, and Cas needs no further explanation.

“Then I don’t want it either, Dean,” Cas smiles back to him, drawing Dean in close to kiss the top of his head affectionately. “You being asexual has nothing to do with my feelings for you. I wouldn't trade this, you here, being in my arms, surrounded by my wings, for anything in the world.”

Dean buries his head in Castiel's neck, seeking the solace that Cas is always willing to provide.

“Me neither, Cas,” he hears whispered into his neck.

And for that moment, standing on their porch enfolded in each other’s arms, everything was perfect. 

FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around until the end. I'm planning on expanding a little on the universe I've got going here so if you want to keep an eye out that's cool, thanks for reading!


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